


The Guarded Secret

by mycapeisplaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal glorification, Apologies, BAMF John, Depression, Destructive garden pests, Drug Abuse, Feels, Flower metaphors, Flowers, Freudian Dreams, Friendship, Gardens & Gardening, John is blessedly distracting, John's ambiguous sexuality, Ladyirds, Long suffering Lestrade, M/M, More Feels, Overdose, Promise, Secrets, Serious contemplation and soul searching, Symbolic weather, The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett - Freeform, The Secret Garden - Freeform, Whodunnit, Withdrawal, cold cases, completely nonsexual motorcycle rides, dubious use of pig parts, egregious use of puns, forensic science, happy endings, how do you buy lubricant in a small town without everyone knowing what you're up to?, man sex in varying positions modes and forms, mentions of child abuse, more BAMF John, murder mysteries, not John or Sherlock, old men who maybe are lovers, psychic daisies, quasi-sexual motorcycle rides, sexual reawakening, shooting rifles, small game hunting, suggestive!Sherlock, that are in no way symbolic of anuses, the science of cosmetics, winks cheekily, you have to read 70K before you get to the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 95,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his war injury, John feels broken, small, and useless.  On a whim, he takes a position as a security guard of sorts at the gorgeous Holmes Hall in Yorkshire.  As it turns out, he is not as broken, small, or useless as he thinks.  A story of beauty and blossom, murder and mystery, loss and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Only One Left

**Author's Note:**

> While this story is based on The Secret Garden, it is only very loosely so. You do not have to have read the children's story to appreciate this one, I hope. This will NOT be a children's story. No children anywhere, I promise.
> 
> Holmes Hall (Misselthwaite Manor) is a conglomeration of various manor houses. Burnett Thwaite is rougly based on the villiage of Gargrave. The rest of the story is as accurate as I could get it with the help of my intrepid British beta, Bettyswallocks and Google.
> 
> WARNINGS: Parts of this will deal with depression and drug use. Also, there is hunting of birds and small animals (non-graphic). Both John and Sherlock are in pretty rough shape when you meet them. Also, one of the OCs was abused as a child. I've been deliberately vague, but it's there. There is some sex, but it's really not incredibly graphic. Wanted to go with the E rating to cover my bases.
> 
> THANKS to Bettyswallocks and Canola Crush, who have spent HOURS betaing and cheerleading and feeding me ideas. This fic would not exist without them. Also a shoutout to Fleewood Mouse and Bittergreens, who are beautiful people who encouraged me to write this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [](https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/hO9pO_YJqJgS11NmtdFwqdMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite)  
> 
> 
> Thanks to Hamstermoon for the awesome cover!

Chapter One: The Only One Left 

 

_Thuckata, thuckata, thuckata._

_Funny,_ he thought, lying flat on his back bleeding to death under the Afghan sun, _I must be losing it. Shock fucks with your head. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that’s a helicopter._ But amid the cacophony of 50 calibre BMG rounds, the distinct chatter of insurgent-held Kalashnikov assault rifles and AK-47s, the screaming of the soldier to the left of him who’d lost most of his right leg, his brain could no longer keep up. Rational thought was quickly fleeing. They had been outnumbered and not expecting the village to be armed to the teeth. Most of his team had already been injured when he went down. And Murray -- Murray couldn’t hear him.

The pain was ebbing now, a bad sign. The shoulder was worse than the leg, he could tell; bones shattered in the shoulder joint itself, the scapulae a ruin. The round that hit his leg may even have nicked the femoral artery. 

Next to him, Smith (too young, really, fucking _shame_ ), finally stopped screaming and died.

He breathed in, out. In, out.

So bloody hot. Dust everywhere.

_Thuckata, thuckata, thuckata._

Please God, thought Captain Watson, officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps, expert in immediate first-aid and life-saving trauma care, please let me live.

Above him, the white-hot eye of the sun was eclipsed by sand. Then, nothing.

 

***

Blink.

Blur.

Blink, blink.

The fluorescent glow of single bulbs, the flutter of a white plastic tarpaulin above him.

Field hospital. He was not dead yet.

***

Blink.

Blur.

Beep.

The hum of machines, noise, green plastic smocks, three surgeons. 

Camp Bastion Hospital. Still not dead.

 

***

 

Blink.

Blur. 

Focus. 

“Can you hear me? Hello?” said an unfamiliar female voice. “It’s time to wake up.”

He licked his lips. The air tasted different, more humid. The constant presence of his vest and pack was strangely missing. His left hand twitched. “Where’s my rifle?” 

“Dr. Watson? You’re home in the UK. I’m Dr Janice Fellows, one of the trauma doctors at QEH. May I call you John?”

He nodded as he fought the pull of drug-induced sleep. Everything was so _still_. Quiet. Peaceful. Maybe he was dead, after all.

“Can you tell me how you’re feeling? Are you in any pain?”

Pain? No, no pain. Not like there was. He forced his eyes open. A young woman stood next to him. He couldn’t read the nametag clipped to her white coat. “Where did you say I am?”

“Military ward, Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Birmingham.”

“And I’m not dead.” His voice sounded hollow, disconnected. He made himself focus. His vitals looked normal on the monitor. Nope. Not dead. Alive. He closed his eyes again. 

“Not in the slightest,” said Dr. Fellows, smiling. “You’re going to be just fine. But,” she said, pulling up the chair to sit next to him, “you’ve been under heavy sedation for a while. You lost a lot of blood and the shoulder injury was complicated. You were stabilised at Camp Bastion where you had your leg patched up.”

John licked his lips and attempted to keep his eyes open. “Water?” he managed.

“Of course.” 

He’d nearly fallen asleep again when she returned with the water. It was incredibly cold. He licked his lips and swallowed a few times. His memory was starting to come back to him, albeit slowly, the images blurry. He was shot. Yes, shot, in the shoulder, and the leg. He managed to look down at it where it was covered with a white blanket. “How bad is my leg?” he asked. The prospect of being wheelchair-bound was suddenly terrifying.

“I’m afraid your leg was the least complicated of your injuries. There’s a scar, but the bullet didn’t hit the bone. However, there’s going to be some residual nerve damage to the shoulder. We saved the joint itself, but you’ve got quite a bit of metal holding it all together. I’m sure you know that we’ll want to start physio right away; the longer you wait, the harder it will be to get your range of motion back. I’ll brief you on everything, but first, I bet you’d love a shower and a shave, hmm? Let’s get that catheter out.”

John nodded. He felt groggy and smelled of antiseptic and stress. Nothing hurt too badly -- yet. He was still disoriented, though. He tried to remember. There was that kid, Smith, and his leg and been reduced to pulp; he needed a tourniquet, fast, and then pain in his shoulder, and he called for...

“Wait,” he asked, opening his eyes again as she went to pull the curtain. “Where’s Murray? Is Murray here?”

She smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry, John. They told me what happened to your team. Murray didn’t make it.”

John closed his eyes again. Jesus. Murray, his friend. He forced his eyes open.

“What about Johnson?”

She shook her head in the negative.

“Burns? Petree?” He kept asking, the names flowing from his parched tongue although he already knew the answer.

“I’m so very sorry, John.” Dr. Fellows sat down again, put her hand on John’s arm. “From what I’ve heard, your team came under heavy fire. By the time MERT arrived, you were the only one left alive. You were very lucky.”

_The only one left alive._

Tears pricked in his eyes. “Can I have a moment?” he managed. 

“Of course.” The doctor patted his arm. “Push the call button when you’re ready.”

John heaved a breath and squeezed his eyes closed. He was home. He’d lost his entire team, but he was still alive, and in one piece. That was something. 

Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

***

The wound in his shoulder got infected and he endured another round of surgery. What was left of his shoulder was a mangled mess. They might as well have taken the entire arm, he thought bitterly as the pain throbbed constantly.

One night, before showering, he stared at himself in the mirror under the punishing glow of the fluorescent lights. His tan was already fading, bags had appeared under his eyes. He’d lost a stone and a half. His right upper thigh bore an ugly six inch scar that ended in a strange-looking V. 

The noise of the shower muffled his sobbing.

***

 

John didn’t get better. He was shot in late August. By early October he was expected to walk without a limp and to have regained most of the range of motion in his arm, but the three weeks he spent at Headley Court in rehabilitation were fruitless. His shoulder refused to cooperate and the tremor in his left hand that flared up when he was angry or stressed, which was most of the time. He hated everyone in the ward without a legitimate reason. He did his physiotherapy with a clenched jaw. He had even earned himself a special note in his defence patient tracking chart that designated him as “difficult” and “angry” and “having trouble adjusting” to his injury. The blue rubber resistance band he had to use during physio endured a great deal of verbal punishment for simply existing. His sister, Harriet, visited exactly once after he ignored her attempts of offering comfort. Despite the Royal Centre for Defence Medicine’s attempts at maintaining a “military atmosphere,” John had flatly refused to make friends. He didn’t even know where the rage came from. At night, he sweated through his bedclothes and woke his neighbours with his nightmares. He was diagnosed with PTSD and depression. Eventually he stopped swearing in favour of silent self-loathing. _Get better_ , he commanded his body. _Get better, damn it, or they won’t send you back. You have to go back_. 

On the first of November he was transferred to a Combat Stress short-stay treatment centre for six weeks of trauma-focussed psychological therapy. Physiotherapy continued, with minimal results. One day in early December an officious and thoroughly forgettable personnel recovery officer appeared with discharge papers. John ripped up the first set and only signed the second by mustering the last of his dignity. When he was released one week later with a metal cane, the name of a counsellor, and a meagre pension, it was into a world he no longer remembered. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

For the first time in his life, John felt completely lost and directionless, and, worse, utterly alone.


	2. Nothing Ever Happens To Me

Chapter Two: Nothing Ever Happens to Me

 

December and January were dark, dark months. 

John rented a tiny bedsit in Croydon that hadn’t been updated since the early seventies. It was spartan and cramped, and the alley behind it was usually noisy until 3am most nights. Sometimes the fire escape rattled, sending him into a panic. On days that he actually got out of bed, he roamed around town, walking aimlessly, trying to get his leg to cooperate. His hair grew long, the bags under his eyes became more pronounced, and he didn’t regain the weight he’d lost while in hospital. He didn’t phone any of his pre-military friends, and didn’t attempt to make new ones.

He found he was rarely hungry. He drank tea, and when his blood sugar got so low he got the shakes he managed a few crisps and sometimes toast. Nothing even sounded good anymore. Usually a man known for a bit of an unruly temper, John now found that very little -- not even the aggravating chip-and-pin machines-- roused his ire. Everything seemed so very pointless.

When his pension came in every month he took £50 and went to the Porter and Sorter, where he sat, alone, and drank pints of bitter until the money ran out. Then he staggered home and justified his actions by telling himself it was only once a month, that he wasn’t like his sister, that he wasn’t an addict, that he had the right to get as pissed as he wanted to after losing both his career and his comrades-in-arms.

Every Tuesday he visited his counsellor, Ella. Deep down he knew that he needed it, and never missed an appointment, but it was hard to connect. He spent a good deal of time each session threatening to leave because so far, she had done nothing for him and he wasn't feeling better. And he wasn't doing much in the space between visits. So much empty time. Like blank pages in a diary...or a computer screen, the cursor just blinking and blinking and blinking...

“I should write a bestselling secret diary of a returned soldier,” he said one day. 

“Well, why don't you?” suggested Ella.

“It would be the most exciting memoir ever,” not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “The first chapter would be all about staring at the walls. The second, walking. Lots of walking. Scintillating reading material right there: Today, I walked. Yesterday, I walked. Tomorrow, I will walk. Punctuate it with a nightmare every now and then for good measure.” 

“You could use it to write down the things you don't like to put into spoken words. Your anger, for example.”

John sighed. “You know, for a while, I was so angry I was just in a rage all the time. I mean, really fucking pissed off. I’m a doctor. I fix things...surely I should be able to move on a bit now.”

“You were also a soldier.”

He pointed a finger at Ella. “Past tense.” 

“You define yourself by your profession, then?”

John thought. “Of course. I was a protector and a healer. It’s what I was born to do,” he said at last, sighing. “It fit perfectly. I guess good things aren’t meant to last. At least not in my world.”

John thought about the things he'd had that had ended prematurely and stared out of Ella's window at grey skies and sleet. A memory floated to the surface of his brain. Burying Bugsy, Harry's rabbit. They'd been young then, still at primary school. He remembered Harry's hot, tearful face on his shoulder. How he could comfort her when nobody else got it right. Well, until she was introduced to Mr Vodka. He smiled then, but there wasn't any mirth in it.

“Where are you, John?”

John jumped back to the present. “Me and my sister, one of the last times that we...she used to trust me then. We'd trust each other. Not now, though.”

“You do still care about her, yes?”

“I suppose so. But I’m not sure if I care about much at all, to be honest. I’m still angry. But you know, most of the time I feel nothing. There’s your bestselling secret diary right there: 400 utterly blank pages of absolutely nothing.” 

“Why not start small, then? Maybe a blog. And you could just write a little something every day.”

John chewed a fingernail. A blog. That didn’t seem too unreasonable.

***

His first ten blog entries were under five words apiece. On the first of February, he wrote, “nothing ever happens to me,” and intended it to be last last entry. What was the point of writing down an uneventful, meaningless life? 

God, he was so bored.

***

On 3 February Harry turned up. “Congratulations, Johnny,” she said as she came in and looked around, her eyebrows drawn together and mouth pulled into a frown. “You’ve officially managed to scare the shit out of me. Pack your things. You’re coming home with me.”

John looked at her as if she’d grown another head. Harriet, his lesbian drunk of a sister, for once looked better than he did. They were so much alike: nearly the same height, their hair almost the same length, the same storm-blue eyes, turned up nose, and thin lips. Harry had a trim body with barely any breasts to speak of, but she could look very feminine if she wanted to; when she went out clubbing John had to admit that she could look rather attractive. Just like her brother, she never had any problems finding someone to go home with, and just like her brother, had always had problems with any type of commitment. She was also beginning to look hard, the features their mother had once called “elfin” had given way to that sort of worn look alcoholics have that ages them prematurely. 

_I’m a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here_ is on at 7pm, too, so get your stuff together. You’re getting out of this shithole and coming home with me.”

Stunned at what might have been Harry’s first act of kindness toward him in years, he acquiesced and silently collected his few belongings and stuffed them into his army rucksack. His small collection of cutlery and kitchen things he left, along with his bedding. He loaded his bag into the boot of Harry’s battered Fiesta and endured Beth Ditto playing loudly enough that they didn’t have to talk. When Harry finally pulled up to her flat, she switched off the ignition and sat there, tears in her eyes. 

“I can’t believe you were living like that,” she said quietly. “Not you.” 

John didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He watched some nonsense in which washed up celebrities attempted to eat caterpillars and forced himself to eat the microwave popcorn she’d made. Harry brought him a blanket and pillow and then sat on the sofa next him and cried. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’m a lousy sister.”

She really was, thought John. He hadn’t been the best of brothers in the past decade, however, either. He could declare a temporary truce.

“Stay for awhile,” she said, sniffing. “Just until you get back on your feet.”

John nodded. A month, he thought. No more than that. One month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested: treatment for invalided soldiers
> 
> http://www.combatstress.org.uk/veterans/treatment-centres/ptsd-intensive-treatment-programme/


	3. The Middle of Nowhere

Chapter Three: The Middle of Nowhere

Too expensive, too far away, too bloody depressing. 

John scrolled through the advertisements for flats in London. There was nothing he could afford on his own, and he sure as hell was NOT going to stay with Harry long-term. He’d only been with her for a week and he had nearly had enough. She was sober, at least, but a sober Harriet’s reservoir of sympathy was only so deep. She constantly reminded him to do his exercises, nagged him about eating, and talked about making a “household chore” list as if they were sharing a student flat.

His future housing prospects looked about as bleak as his opportunities for employment. There was locum work in London, but nothing permanent. A career as a surgeon was no longer an option. A wider search proved more fruitful, and after two days of doing little more than browsing the internet and calling around, John found a clinic in Leeds that was looking for a part-time GP. He hoped his current CV was convincing enough to get him an interview. 

Some two weeks after he’d been staying with Harry, Sarah Sawyer, from Harehills Surgery, phoned. A short phone conversation proved promising, and John decided to spend the next few days in Leeds to attend an interview and acquaint himself with the city.

He had an quiet and rather awkward dinner with his sister, who was adamant that he wasn’t “ready” to work again. Disregarding her concern and promising he’d be fine, he packed his bag, and in the morning, headed to the train station.

***

He slept the two and half hour journey -- the rocking of the train somehow reminding him of military transport over uneven terrain. Transport was frequently one of the only times when he _could_ sleep, and it seemed his body was still used to it. He rubbed a hand over his face when the train lurched to a stop and hoped his hair wasn’t too ruffled. 

The early afternoon was spent checking into at the Premier Inn and then figuring out the bus route to Sarah’s surgery. 

Sarah, as it turned out, was incredibly attractive and kind; she wasn’t phased in the slightest about his cane or the tremor in his hand. The half-hour interview went well, and she assured him that she’d be in touch soon. 

It was five in the evening by the time all was said and done, and John found himself wandering the city, hoping Thackray’s Medical Museum was still open, when he heard his name being called from behind him. 

“John! John Watson!”

John turned, startled, and nearly ran into a heavy-set man struggling to catch up with him. “John! Mike Stamford. From Barts! I got fat, I know. What brings you up here?”

He shook Mike’s hand. “Looking for a job.”

“Last I heard you were off in Afghanistan. What happened?” 

John shrugged and waved his cane a bit. “Got shot.”

“Apparently.”

“What about you? Thought you’d stay in London forever.”

“Research. Working on a grant. Really exciting things going on with oncology lately. Doing a bit of teaching, as well. Think Bart’s just wanted to get rid of me for awhile.” He laughed. “Hey, have you had dinner? I’m starving and Margaret’s at book club tonight.”

John opened his mouth to politely decline, but then shut it again. What the hell. Why not? He was hungry, and he had liked Mike. They had been friends once, ages ago. He remembered having dinner at Mike and Margaret’s shortly after they got engaged.

Dinner was nice, actually. They ate at the Midnight Bell, where he splurged and ordered a steak pie and a lager. Beat the hell out of the frozen microwave dinners he’d been forcing himself to eat at Harry’s. He tried not to devour his meal in seconds as Mike told him all about his wife. They hadn’t had children, but had done some Medecins sans Frontieres work in Africa. John was surprised how easily they fell into conversation. If he were honest with himself, perhaps he was afraid that he’d forgotten how, that the man who joked with his buddies had been left behind (no, not ‘left behind’, horrible euphemism. Dead, they were all dead) in Helmand. 

“So, think you’ll get the position?” Mike asked after he finished his meal. 

John shrugged. “I hope so. The interview went well. Going to have to find a place to live, though. The pay’s OK, but it’s only a couple of days a week, so somewhere fairly cheap. I really just want some peace and quiet.”

Mike smiled. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. It’s just that just this morning at Jimmy’s I saw this advert on the bulletin board in the doctors’ lounge. I even took a picture of it -- quite the place, thought I’d show Margaret. She loves old houses. Sounds perfect for you. Hang on a tick, I’ll send it to you. What’s your number?”

John gave Mike the number and pulled out his mobile -- Harry’s old phone, a present from her now ex-fiancee, Clara. It was fairly new and rather complicated, and he couldn’t turn it down. She’d helped him change the number and set up a plan; things had changed so much with cellular technology since last he’d been a civilian. John had never taken to technology the way his sister had. He still hunt-and-pecked when he typed and he had no desire to learn to do it properly. 

The text from Mike came through. He opened it. The picture showed an enormous manor house. Beneath it, the description ran:

**Security guard required for private property -- free lodgings.**

“Don’t think that’s going to last long,” said John. “Bet someone’s already taken it.”

“Couldn’t tell you. Look, John, it’s worth a look, anyway. Beautiful country. It’d be nice and quiet, that’s for sure. Train ride’s not so long, either. You’d like it here. It’s not London, but it’s a great place to research and practice medicine. Come up and see me sometime. I’ve got a great lab. Teaching’s not so bad, either. Maybe we could arrange something for you.”

He parted ways with Mike and made it back to the hotel, feeling more peaceful than he had in ages. After a shower, he turned down his bed and attempted to read. But for some reason his eyes wouldn’t stay on the page, but kept flitting over to his mobile. 

It was only 8pm.

He found the ad and dialed the number. He got an answering service, where a bored-sounding woman with a thick Yorkshire accent asked the caller who was interested in the room to leave a name and number. John did so and then turned his mobile off. Leeds just might be a place he could restart. It sure as hell wasn’t Afghanistan, and for that he was infinitely grateful. 

*** 

John had two nightmares that night and woke up feeling unrested. He watched the morning news and was cursing the hateful blue rubber exercise band (right fucking cunt) when his mobile rang. It was a sunny trill of notes that Harry had selected; that would have to go. He swore at the band a few more times before tossing it on top of his rucksack. One day he was going to destroy it, cut it up into tiny pieces or set it on fire. He checked the screen -- it was the same number he’d called the night before. 

“Hello?”

“John Watson?” inquired a posh-sounding female voice.

“Yes.”

“Are you Dr. John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?”

He blinked. “Um, yes. That’s me.”

“You called about the room. My employer is interested in meeting you.”

Well. Now that was one hell of a way to open a conversation. Her “employer”? Who even said that, anyway? Mobsters? “OK,” he replied, baffled. 

“Are you available today?”

John shrugged to himself and tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear while he scrambled for a pencil and pad of paper in the hotel’s desk drawer. 

“Yeah, sure.”

“Take the 12:49 train. Bring your things; if you are suitable you can take occupancy immediately. I’ll meet you at the station.” And with that, she rang off.

Weird. Really weird. But not boring. Something was better than nothing.

***

There was virtually no one at the tiny platform when he arrived at Burnett Thwaite*, save a woman who looked as if she’d stepped directly out of a Boden catalogue. She sat, typing away at her mobile phone, before pocketing the device in a fashionable tartan cape-type-coat that John imagined cost a fortune. Her hair fell in waves under a woollen cap. She wore tight corduroy trousers and tall leather equestrian-style boots that likely had never seen the sides of a horse, much less actual mud and dirt. She held out her hand for a perfunctory handshake. 

“I’m John Watson,” said John, suddenly feeling flustered and completely inadequate with his stupid limp and his stupid cane.

“I know,” she replied.

“How’d you know I was a doctor? Or in the army?”

She smiled enigmatically and didn’t answer. “Is that all you brought?” she asked instead, gesturing to his kitbag.

John huffed a laugh. The bag contained, literally, all he owned at the moment. “Yeah.”

She made a little humming noise before turning toward the small car park. Thank God she didn’t offer to carry it. He’d nearly died of embarrassment when an elderly woman on the train attempted to give up her seat for him. “This way.”

John shouldered his bag without too much pain or difficulty, and she ushered him to a waiting black sedan before joining him in the rear. The car pulled out. They followed a small, winding road into little village containing little more than a market, post office, and church before turning down a lane flanked by stone walls and dense hedges. Sheep grazed along the road until the farms turned into moorland. His companion was taciturn, absorbed with her phone.

“So,” he started, wondering where to begin a conversation, “does your ‘employer’ have a name?”

“Mr. Holmes.”

“Right. And are you his…?”

“No.”

John chewed his lip. God, it had been forever since he’d chatted someone up. It used to come so naturally to him. “Do you live on the property?”

“No.”

No. Okay. John smiled a little to himself. Time for another tactic. “I didn’t get your name.”

She finally put the phone in her lap and shot him a weary smile. “Anthea.”

“Anthea. Hm. Very nice. Unusual. Pretty. Sounds Greek.” He paused. “Are you Greek?”

“Um, no.” 

“Is that even your real name?”

She shook her head in the negative, smiled wanly again, and went back to whatever she was doing.

Well, that was a disaster. John mentally kicked himself for even trying. He was an invalid now, a little man with a little cane whose entire wardrobe fit in a standard-issue rucksack. He spent the rest of the ride staring out the window. He’d never been to this part of Yorkshire. It really was beautiful country, with rolling, heather-covered hills and rocky outcroppings. Occasionally they’d pass a rambling brook, and once they went over an ancient-looking stone bridge. John wondered if there was trout in the stream. Maybe he’d learn to fish, if things worked out all right.

It wasn’t long before they pulled off the narrow lane and onto a formal drive. The manicured lawn was pristine beyond the tall trees that flagged the driveway, and when he saw the house proper, John couldn’t help but gape a bit. There were so many windows, tall slim panes of glass tucked between ivy-covered stone walls.

It was at that moment, with his mouth hanging open, that Anthea chose to speak. “Holmes Hall is a grade II listed building with origins back to the 12th century, although both the east and west wings were built in the 1800s. The property also has two guest houses, although your quarters are in the main hall. There’s a stable for the horses as well.” She finally looked up from her mobile. “Do you ride?”

John smiled. “No.”

“Pity.” She didn’t sound sympathetic in the least. “There is a stream to the side that wraps around the very back, and formal gardens to the west. You’re allowed on the entire 60 acres, and there’s a motorbike if you want to ride. The east wing is currently closed due to renovation. The pool and sauna are on the ground floor to the south of the ball room. There’s internet access, but it’s patchy and only works well in the library.” She pocketed her phone as the driver pulled up to the house. 

John couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer size of the place. He couldn’t believe that someone actually still privately owned it for single family use, that it hadn’t been turned into a stately home or something. He hefted his bag again and slowly followed Mr. Holmes’ assistant up stone steps led up to a formal doorway; shapely pruned potted evergreens stood sentinel at either side of the massive oak door with glass insets. 

“You’ll want to look around a bit, I imagine,” she said as they entered into an enormous yet somehow comfortable foyer. “I’ll have Mrs. Hudson give you a tour. She’s the housekeeper. There’s also Lestrade, who does maintenance and the gardens. Molly Hooper tends the stables. I manage Mr. Holmes’ properties,” she added, in case John hadn’t figured it out yet. “Mr. Holmes will be arriving at 6pm for dinner. He’ll interview you then. Welcome. Mrs. Hudson will be just a moment.” And with that, she disappeared into a side room, leaving John alone.

He stood there for a moment, awkwardly bouncing on the soles of his feet, before setting his bag down. It smelled old; not the mouldy mustiness of neglect, but rather of woodsmoke and furniture polish, worn velvet and old books. The foyer was painted a warm brick red, and thick oriental rugs covered the dark wood floor. Although the day was dreary, plenty of light spilled through the tall, elegantly draped windows. To his left was a staircase that curled up and out of sight, and oil paintings in gilt frames -- originals, not prints -- covered the walls. A long sideboard rested against the back wall, above which hung a massive mirror flanked by two incredible pieces of taxidermy: an elk and an antelope. A glass container held forced bulbs of amaryllis, their red and white petals reflected in the shine of the mirror. An ancient-looking chandelier hung from the beamed ceiling, and a stately grandfather clock kept time in the corner. Hallways branched off to the left and right; peering down one, John could see something resembling a formal sitting room. 

He couldn’t possibly imagine calling the place ‘home’, but some niggling feeling told him that perhaps it would do him some good to spend some time in the middle of nowhere. He could work, and heal, and put himself back together again. It would be like living in a museum for awhile. It was beautiful, for certain. For all the ugliness he had seen, perhaps a little beauty was what he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's CV in the show isn't exactly accurate. I did the best research I could from metas and NHS and RAMC websites. It's not that important to the story.
> 
> *Burnett Thwaite is not a real place, but a fictional village much like Gargrave or Skipton. I imagine Holmes Hall out in the Yorkshire Dales.


	4. A Motley Crew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to all the people who help me write and give me inspiration. This fic is better for the Britpicking services of Ms. Bettyswallocks, the massive amount of sheer plot genius from Canola Crush, and cheerleading from Fleetwood Mouse and Bittergreens.

Chapter Four: A Motley Crew

John was investigating an ancient-looking hunting horn that hung on the wall for decoration, when he heard the distinct click of heels behind him. 

“Oh, you must be John Watson!” John turned to see an older yet well-put-together woman simply beaming at him.

“Yup,” said John, taken aback by her genuine enthusiasm. He wondered if she got out much, or if Mr. Holmes kept his staff locked away for days at a time. “That’s me.”

“Let me take your coat.” 

John shed his coat and offered his hand, which she shook. Her hands were warm and soft. “Martha Hudson, dear. The housekeeper.”

He’d honestly expected a stout northerner, complete with thick Yorkshire accent, not this bird of a woman who sounded like a Londoner and fussed over him like a grandmother. She hung his jacket on the coat stand before rubbing her hands together in anticipation. “You’ll be wanting to see your room first, I’d imagine.”

“Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I haven’t decided if I’ll be staying. Don’t I have to talk to Mr. Holmes before assuming anything?”

“Of course you’re staying, dear,” she tutted. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have come all this way now, would you? Trust me, you wouldn’t have been invited if you weren’t suitable. Your room is on the ground floor. This is the main hall, and then there’s the east and west wings. The east wing is a bit of a mess right now, but the west wing is just lovely. Mr. Holmes thought you’d prefer the rose, but I knew you’d like the carnation. Rooms, that is, dear. It’s how I keep track of all of them, otherwise I’d get myself lost. Follow me.”

John let her lead the way through a drawing room, a formal dining room, a kitchen, and then down a corridor past half a dozen closed doors before the hall ended and turned to the left. “Here’s the west wing,” she explained. “We’ve got four bedrooms here, the rose, carnation, daffodil, and the thistle. That’s the thistle, down there, at the end.” She pulled a face. “Never liked that room. It’s got a hidden servants’ staircase up to the first floor and a creaky old dumbwaiter. Gives me the creeps, even now that it’s all fixed up. Now I’ve got the daffodil across the hall. Mycroft stays in rose, when he’s here, and here we are, the carnation.”

For a moment John was terrified that the door would open upon a bright pink monstrosity, but instead the room was tastefully decorated in shades of caramel, sable, and forest green. A large four-poster bed stood to the right and a fireplace with a large mantle to the left. There was a desk with an original oil painting of a labrador retriever with a pheasant in its mouth above it. Two plush chairs with carved wooden arms rested on either side of a bank of tall, curtained windows. The floor was wood, but a thick rug covered most of it. The bedside lamp was lit, giving the room a golden glow. It was tasteful and slightly masculine, modern but still completely in character with a stately manor house. It was rather large, as well. Three of the old bedsit in Croydon could have fit inside it. 

He must have looked pleased, for Mrs. Hudson giggled to the side of him and walked further into the room. “You were expecting pink, I gather,” she said. “Anthea was in charge of the renovations and the interior decor. She insists that we call the rooms simply by number. The original names, though, stick in my mind. What with our gardens and all. And ‘Room 4’ just doesn’t have that unique touch. It was pink, though. And red. We stripped miles of wallpaper! Bloody vile stuff, too. Looked like a haemorrhage.”

John chuckled in spite of himself. A haemorrhage. He could only imagine. It _was_ a nice room. Very welcoming and warm. So unlike his room at Headley Court, sterile and cold and so very...beige. 

“Gets a bit drafty,” Mrs. Hudson continued, “but if you cover the windows at night it’s not too unbearable. Fireplace has been converted to gas, so you just flip that little switch there. I put a kettle in the cupboard there for you. No use going all the way to the kitchens for a cuppa. You’ve got an ensuite bathroom, too. Thought you’d appreciate some privacy. Some of the rooms on the first floor share one. It has a lovely view, too. Come look.” She waved him over to peer out the windows. The weather had deteriorated into a slow, steady drizzle, but he could see the woods in the distance and a vast expanse of lawn. 

“Oh, I guess it looks rather dreadful at the moment, but once spring arrives, the place is just bursting with colour. We’ve got a hothouse, too. Fresh oranges this time of year. You’ll want to spend some time out of doors, I’m sure. The property’s all open to you. Except for…” She trailed off. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Except for…?”

“Well, there’s this one garden that’s locked up. Has been for over a two decades now. I've never seen it. ” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It belonged to the late Mr. Holmes. From what I've heard, a kinder man never walked this planet. See, well. There was an accident” she whispered. “No one talks about it anymore. It’s still a very distressing to Mycroft and... and everyone. So Archibald Holmes' garden stays locked. I hear he hated that name; everyone called him Archie. Loved to tend the earth so, when they were here. It was his wife who was so brilliant. She’d be studying or writing, mathematics, it was, and he’d potter about in that garden of his. They tell me this place never lacked for fresh flowers, never. He said “grow” and they’d just spring right out of the ground.”

“My goodness, that’s. That’s awful,” said John, meaning it. “About the accident.”

“He was pruning a tree. The ladder broke, and he fell. Lilly, Mrs. Holmes, spent another decade's worth of summers here before she permanently moved to London. Busiest place she could think of, away from the slow country life and their flowers. She passed away this past autumn, and now Mycroft, Archie’s son who owns Holmes Hall now, is trying to figure out what to do with this place. Seems the best course is to turn it into a luxury hotel. Lord knows the Holmes boys don’t want it. Lilly didn’t either, but who’s to turn down an inheritance like this one! I’d sell it, myself, and buy a nice flat in London. Right next to Regent’s Park. How I did love that place as a child! With the little boats.”

John nodded politely. She really was a talker.

After a moment of staring into nothing, Mrs. Hudson pulled herself together. “I don’t know why I told you all of that. I need to learn to keep my mouth firmly shut. Bit too late for that, though, now. Now, Dr. Watson, you can unpack” --she gestured to his bag-- “and get freshened up for dinner. Can you find your way back?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I believe I can.” It came out sounding sharper than he’d intended. 

“Oh.” She deflated a little. “Well. It’s so nice to see a new face.” She clasped her hands together again. “I think you’ll fit in just fine.” And with that, she left in a flutter.

John took a deep breath and tried not to laugh. Eccentric old lady. His own grandmother had passed away when he was only a child, and his mother, well, wasn’t very motherly. They hadn’t spoken in years. And his relationship with Harry was a disaster. The only relationship with a woman he’d managed to achieve any sort of emotional intimacy with was Mary, and look how that ended. They had “trust issues,” whatever that meant. He hadn’t even called her when he was in hospital. What was the point? She had moved on. And so had he, he supposed.

Refusing to feel sorry for himself any longer, John lifted his bag onto the bed and unzipped it. He piled his three pairs of trousers (jeans, green cotton, and brown corduroy), four shirts (two tartan, a long-sleeve striped lightweight jumper, and a grey cardigan), five pairs of underpants (standard white briefs), five pairs of socks (a selection from the Marks and Spencer sale), and five vests. He also had two mystery novels, a shaving kit, the loathsome rubber resistance band, a pair of pyjama bottoms, and some trainers. That was it. John Watson in a bag. 

He might as well stay. If anything, he could chalk it up to an adventure. Big house in the moors, mysterious owner, strange-but-friendly housekeeper. Not too far away from Leeds; he could commute.

Resolved, he picked up his shirts and headed to the wardrobe. He opened it and stared. There was an entire four seasons’ worth of clothing inside: jackets and trousers hanging pressed and neat; soft jumpers folded precisely. A stylish black shooting-style jacket with a corduroy collar and a leather patch on the shoulder. Maybe Mrs. Hudson had put him in the wrong room by mistake. He looked at the tag on a pair of the trousers: they were exactly his size. Not many men had a 29” inside leg. On the bottom of the wardrobe, two more pairs of shoes (size 8½), and hiking boots. Nothing had a price tag. Jesus Christ.

John placed his shirts on top of the other ones and took a step back before sitting on the edge of the bed. It was more than a little weird. It was downright creepy as fuck. Mr. Holmes was one presumptuous man. 

 

***

Expecting dinner to be some kind of formal affair with more table settings than he could count, John showered, shaved and put on his best shirt with his green trousers. It turned out, however, to be a fairly casual event. Mr. Holmes was apparently running late and wouldn’t be in until the morning. 

Mrs. Hudson served a hearty, aromatic beef stew. They sat together at her cosy kitchen table, and he ate well as she sat nattering on about living in Florida for several years with a husband who was up to no good. He tuned most of it out, nodding at the proper times. The sun had set and the rain had gone from a drizzle to a steady downpour; tired and full, he found himself ready to turn in. Thanking Mrs. Hudson again, he helped her clear the table (“I’ll load them just this time,” she’d said as she rinsed and placed the dishes in the dishwasher -- “not _your_ housekeeper”) before making his way back to his room. He took his time getting there, this time paying attention to the artwork and knickknacks adorning the walls. The place was like a museum; it would take him days to see it all.

He did his normal bedtime routine, including stretching the resistance band, put on his pyjamas, lit the gas fire, and sat down to read his book. Within moments he was asleep.

***

“Oh God, oh God!” Smith was screaming from across the street. One moment he was standing, the other he wasn’t. 

Watson saw it happen, three 20-calibre AK rounds made short work of the kid’s left leg, which was now nothing but a bleeding stump. Jesus. They were so outnumbered; poor intelligence.

“Oh God!” Smith screamed again. Watson barked orders to the soldier next to him. His current patient -- now minus an ear -- would live. Shouldering his gear, Watson covered the short distance between the two buildings to where Smith was lying in the dirt. 

“It hurts, it hurts,” he wailed. Watson did what he did best: in the thick of it, bullets literally whizzing past his head, he set to work, the whole emergency medical procedure meticulously outlined in his mind. Part of him remained aware of his surroundings, half-listening to the shouts and directives of his team, while most of him focussed on getting Smith to stop bleeding. He’d already used four of the ten CAT-tourniquets he’d brought with him. 

“Stay with me,” said Watson. “Focus. Breathe. You’ll be all right.”

But Smith did not focus; instead he began to shake, his speech completely disintegrating into keens and howls. Watson was in the middle of applying the tourniquet when he heard a desperate cry for backup, the crackle of a radio to his left. _Stop fucking bleeding,_ he thought as he tightened the CAT. Now, something for the shock…

He was reaching into his pack for morphine and an epipen when he noticed Murray, across the narrow street, take a hit in the arm. _Fuck. No. Not Murray._ Watson stood to see better, morphine in his hand, when the round hit him in the shoulder. Right next to the fucking vest. A second to realize what had happened and then searing pain in his leg. Next thing he knew he was lying next to Smith, who was decidedly NOT going to be all right. Not with the team’s only medic lying flat on his back with two significant wounds.

“Murray!” yelled Watson, hoping his friend could still hear out of one ear. “Murray! I’m down! I’m down! Call for MERT! MERT! NOW!”

His cries went unheeded, however; they were taking heavy fire from enemy 50-calibre rounds. Dust and plaster rained down on him from above. Not too far away, the sound of something exploding. And then, the pain. Jesus, the pain.

“MURRAY! I NEED YOU! MURRAY!”

Thuckata-thuckata-thuckata  
Thuckata-thuckata-thuckata  
Thuckata-thuckata-thuckata  
Thuckata-thuckata-thuckata  
THUCKATATHUCKATATHUCKATA

John bolted upright in his chair, knocking his book to the ground and gasping for breath. He pressed his palms to his ears to drown out the noise before crashing to the floor. He lay there, sweating and shaking, waiting for the panic to dissipate. Yet the noise of the helicopter persisted. 

He forced himself through a breathing exercise, inhaling the smell of the thick, woollen carpet and trying to calm down. _You’re in Yorkshire,_ he told himself. _Yorkshire. Not Afghanistan. Yorkshire. Bloody sheep and all that. Not Afghanistan._ A minute later he realized that the distinctive sound was accompanied by a bright light which shone from behind the curtains. John made himself stand. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and checked his watch. Two in the morning. He hobbled without his cane to the window where there really was a goddamned helicopter, right there on the front lawn. A man climbed out. Hard to tell what he was wearing from the distance and because of the rain, but he carried a briefcase of some sort and...and an umbrella? Another man was waiting for him. The helicopter took to the sky again. Shaken, John went to the bathroom to wash his face before climbing into the big bed. 

Mr. Holmes must have arrived, he mused as he stared at the ceiling. 

Soon he heard murmuring down the hallway and then the sound of a door closing.

It was another hour before he could fall asleep again, but eventually, the lull of the rain and the comfort of the bed --or maybe the promise of comfort and company-- won out, and he drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

 

***

 

John woke to light -- apparently the rain had finally decided to let up. He spent a moment cataloguing his body (the first night in any strange bed usually led to stiffness the following morning) and found himself feeling actually rather rested, despite the earlier nightmare. He showered and shaved, put on (his own) clothes, and made his way down to the kitchen, where he assumed Mrs. Hudson --and hopefully the mysterious proprietor-- would be. 

He wasn’t disappointed. Leaning against the worktop was a tall man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.

“Ah, Doctor Watson,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome.”

John shook his hand cautiously. “Mr. Holmes.”

“Mycroft, please.” He smiled, a smarmy thing that John instantly disliked. Mycroft Holmes looked like a man who was used to getting what he wanted without anyone making much of a fuss. 

Mrs. Hudson stood at the stove, frying eggs, bacon, and sausages. John’s mouth watered. “It’ll be just a moment,” she said. “You two sit down and have some tea.” An elegant china teapot sat on the table. 

Neither man sat. They stood there for a moment, the men sizing each other up. Mycroft clearly wasn’t military, but something about him spoke of power and authority. “You bought me clothes,” said John at last. 

“Ah, yes. You’ll be needing them, correct?”

“Bit odd, that. I didn’t tell you my sizes.”

Mycroft shrugged and took off his suit jacket, draping it over a chair.

“I occupy a minor position in the British Government,” he said, as if that explained everything. 

“Right.”

“Please, sit.” John paused just long enough to let Mycroft know that he was sitting because he chose to, not because he was told to. Might as well be civilised. John put his cane next to the table as Mycroft first poured tea, then reached for his briefcase, setting it down on table, and opening it. He procured a manilla envelope, which he opened in front of him. He read: “John Watson, thirty-eight. Born and raised in St Albans. Mother Susan and father James, deceased. Older sister, Harriet Watson, alcoholic. One long-term relationship with one Mary Morstan prior to your military service, and a rather, um, _impressive_ number of romantic dalliances in your university years. Read medicine at Barts, graduating with first class honours. Passed your commissioning course at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst with flying colours. Two tours of duty in Afghanistan. Recently dismissed from military service due to extensive injuries on the battlefield.” He stopped and looked up. “Thank you for your service.”

John frowned at him. Mycroft continued, as if having a detailed file of a potential employee were an everyday occurrence. “You’re currently undergoing a course of physiotherapy and seeing a counsellor for your depression and PTSD. How’s that working out for you? I see you’ve missed your last two appointments since you’ve been staying with your sister.”

John frowned some more before taking a sip of his tea. It was good. Pity the company was not of the same quality. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” he asked pointedly. “With the whole mysterious assistant, buying me clothes, knowing my life’s history, and arriving in the middle of the night? Because I’m getting a distinct impression that you think I’m someone I’m not. Entertaining, yes, but seems like a waste of both of our time. Why exactly am I here, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft Holmes looked vaguely impressed, closed the dossier, and sipped at his own tea before he spoke again. 

“I had hoped you’d take on a bit of security work. Lestrade is here during the day. You’ll meet him later, I suppose. But with the renovation work and the valuables the estate houses, I’d prefer a man on the premises at all times.”

“He’s trying to protect me,” chuckled Mrs. Hudson, who set plates and then a steaming dish laden with eggs, bacon, and sausages. “As if I need it. I’m handy with a frying pan,” she added in a stage whisper. John didn’t doubt it.

“I need someone I can trust.”

“And you couldn’t find that in Leeds? Don’t you have a top-notch security system?”

“You did answer the advert, Doctor. And you are in need of a place to stay, correct?” 

Well, that was true. “Just let me get this straight. All you want me to do is to stay. Keep myself occupied during the day, and sleep lightly at night in case I might be summoned to do your bidding.” He’d meant it as a bit of a joke, but Mr. Holmes showed no signs of interpreting it that way.

“Essentially, yes. If you’d like to do some basic maintenance I certainly wouldn’t be averse to it. Most of the west wing has been renovated already, but there are a few projects that remain to be completed. The east wing is off limits due to construction. Lestrade does most of the outdoor work, but you’re welcome to tackle a project or two. I’d like you on for at least the months of March and April. It may not be necessary for you to stay on longer, but you may stay longer if it suits you. If, of course, you find better accommodations elsewhere, you are welcome to leave.”

John frowned some more. The whole thing smelled fishy, but it beat the hell out of staying with Harry or taking up residence at another bedsit.

“Right. Well, I’m afraid I don’t have many options at the moment, and no other place to be. I guess I’ll be your man.”

“Excellent,” said Mycroft. “I had hoped you’d say yes.” 

They shared a perfunctory handshake.

“Do keep a close eye on the place,” said Mycroft as he put John’s file back into his briefcase. “All it contains is very, very dear to me. Now, Mrs. Hudson, what have you prepared this morning?”

The men tucked into their breakfasts as Mrs. Hudson regaled her employer with the latest local gossip. 

Good god, thought John as he cut into his sausages. What on earth have I got myself into?

 

***

 

After breakfast, John put on his trainers and jacket. He would have to remember to ask Mrs. Hudson if there was a pair of binoculars somewhere he could borrow.

First he walked away from the house to the north-west, where a stream marked the western boundary of the property. Several acres of pheasant run bordered the south of the property; John stood next to the tall, dead grass and watched the withered stalks blow in the breeze. HIs grandfather had been an avid pheasant and upland game hunter. As a child, John had visited his grandparents rarely, but he remembered the smell of his grandfather’s pipe and his thick Scottish brogue. Grandma would cook the rich, dark meat with onions and potatoes, turnips and carrots until everything was tender and delicious. Harry hated it and complained loudly about animal rights. John would suck every piece off the bones, loudly, just to see her squirm. Sometimes his grandfather would even let young John accompany him on a shoot, to handle the dog or carry the bag of birds once the men had shot their limit. There were no pheasants in the deserts of Afghanistan. There were spiders as big as his fist, and scorpions that could cause necrosis within hours. He still longed for his pack and pistol, but if he never saw another camel spider again, he would be eternally grateful.

He followed the stream for a while as it slipped over shiny stones and at one point over a little man-made waterfall toward a fish pond. He walked around the pond until he came to the small dam, under which the water sluiced out and rambled away from the grounds into the woods. A small pasture for two horses lay between the pond and the long stone stable building, and John watched them for a while. Harry had been crazy about them as a kid, but John had always been wary -- they were bloody gigantic. These two --a black and a chestnut-- looked relatively harmless.

He turned, then, stuffing his cold right hand into his pocket, and decided to check out the greenhouse that sat directly north of the manor house. It was a beautiful stand-alone structure of cobblestone and glass. Clutching his cane, John made his way to it, and let himself in. It smelled delightful -- the warm, fecund smell of botanical life that was absent from the crisp outdoor air. He allowed himself to wander up and down the rows, taking in the delicate orchids perched in their colorful glazed pots, the hothouse heirloom tomatoes, peppers, hanging baskets of flowering vines, several citrus trees with green fruit on, and oh! What was this? John laughed to himself as he fingered a tall, healthy-looking cannabis plant, flourishing in a large growbag. He wondered if the stuffy Mr. Holmes knew it was here. Herbs grew in abundance along the back of the greenhouse, and the west side was dedicated to countless trays of seedlings -- no doubt to be planted soon when the danger of hard frost had passed.

Once feeling warm again, John continued his investigation by looking at the walled gardens. The entire east wing of the house had a nine-foot tall brick wall running parallel to it. John walked alongside it, taking in the dead ivy and crumbling bricks until he found the entrance -- an archway -- at the front of the house. The inside would be stunning come spring, he realized immediately. A fountain stood to one side, and a tiny, stone-walled pond to the other. Arbours covered certain paths; beds where the spring flowers would soon appear flanked the paths. Shrubs stood stalwartly, unaffected by the late winter's chill. John spent nearly twenty minutes poking around. It obviously wasn’t the mysterious garden Mrs. Hudson spoke of. Or was it? John went back to the entry arch and tried to estimate the length to the back wall. The last portion, he could tell, extended to the end of the house entirely, wherever the back wall of the garden ended at the second to last set of windows. He hobbled out and around again to see more closely for himself. Indeed, the ivy-covered wall wrapped all the way around. There was no sign of a door or gateway arch, however, anywhere. It was almost as if it was not just locked, as Mrs. Hudson said, but hidden away on purpose, blotted out of existence.

He was examining the back of the wall when he heard a door shut to his right, from the patio area. Then, a man wearing a thick woollen cap turned the corner, a big yellow labrador trotting along at his heels. 

The dog barked and ran forward, stopping in front of John, tail wagging and tongue out. John reached down to stroke its head.

“Here, Toby, come on now, boy. By heck, you scared the fuck out of me,” he swore in a thick Yorkshire accent. The dog trotted back to his owner.

“Sorry,” said John, coming forward and offering his hand. “John Watson. I guess I’m lodging here for awhile.”

“Greg Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson told me you were on a bit of a walk. But the place has been pretty quiet as of late so it’s a bit strange to see someone new. Good to meet you.”

“Thanks. Do you really manage all of this on your own? I mean, Jesus. What a job! This place is massive.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t look like much now, though.” Lestrade shrugged and pushed his cap back with his forearm. His silver hair fell over his forehead from underneath. “I like it. Good, honest hard work. Quiet, too. Well, I should probably show you the garage while we’re right here. Got a motorbike you’re welcome to. And a real bicycle, too, if you want.”

They walked slowly back to the stables at the back of the property, making small talk, the dog staying close to his master’s side. Lestrade offered nothing more about the eccentric Mr. Holmes, except to say that he did tend to come and go via helicopter because he lived and worked in London, and that he indeed was employed by the government.

Lestrade himself had a fine motorcycle, a vintage Triumph Thruxton. The spare bike -- a Kawasaki -- wasn’t half as nice as Lestrade’s Triumph, but it would do quite well. John found himself eager to ditch his cane and fly through the roads that wound through the moors. To be physically free, to flirt with danger again, to fuel his adrenaline. Was Mr. Holmes right? Did he miss the war? The action? The grit, the smell of blood and smoke, the sun beating down on him, the endless stretches of nothing broken by intense fighting? Fuck. He didn’t know. How was a summer in the middle of nowhere going to help him at all, if what he really needed was some action? His shoulder was still so stiff -- how would he even dig a hole in the ground?

“Mr. Holmes said you might need a hand with the spring gardening,” said John as he looked over what was clearly Lestrade’s corner of the building, complete with lawnmowers, bags of mulch, and various gardening tools hanging from hooks on the wall. 

“I’ll let you know if you can help out.” Lestrade hefted a pair of sharp-looking pruning shears. “Keep an eye out for robin redbreast. Soon as you see him, there’ll be plenty of work to do. I’m guessing two weeks, if the weather cooperates. Hey, you got a job?”

“Might do. Interviewed yesterday in Leeds. Bit of a whirlwind, all of this. It was just a whim, and now I apparently have a landlord who buys my clothing and carries my entire life in his briefcase.” 

“The Holmes are a bit of a peculiar bunch, that’s for sure.”

“There’s more of them, then?”

Lestrade looked uncomfortable for a moment. “He’s got a brother,” he said. “Problems.”

“Oh.”

“Hey,” said Lestrade changing the topic, “the bike’s got a full tank if you need it. See you later.” And with that he walked toward the gardens, shears slung over his shoulder, Toby at his side.

John began to walk to the back patio, where he could take a look at the fountain and swimming pool, when he heard Lestrade call back.

“Hey, John? If I get done in time, fancy a game of snooker later?”

“Sure,” John called back. He half-saluted as Lestrade disappeared around the corner.

John spent the rest of the day inside, reading and halfheartedly watching his phone, hoping for a call from the clinic in Leeds. He made himself a sandwich for dinner and later played snooker with Lestrade, who beat him soundly. 

It began to rain again late in the evening, so he wrestled with his resistance band and tinkered with his blog for a while. He was considering bed when he remembered to check his messages. One voicemail: it was Sarah Sawyer from the clinic in Leeds. He had a job.

 

***

 

John was summoned by Mycroft later the next afternoon. Something about the man made John slightly uncomfortable; namely, that he was holding something back, and John hated dishonesty. 

“I’ve been offered a job in Leeds,” he said. “Part time, three days a week, morning shift, the occasional on-call weekend.”

“Yes. At Harehills Surgery. Not a problem,” replied Mycroft from behind the beautiful antique desk. 

John gaped at him. “How on earth did you know that?” he exclaimed. “She just phoned yesterday!”

“It is my job to know things,” said Mycroft with a shrug. “Anyway, I’d like you to sign a tenancy agreement. I will require you for at least the rest of February, April, May, and June. Perhaps the entire summer, if needed.”

John blinked away his disbelief. He wondered if Mycroft had cameras in his room or something. The thought was unnerving. “That sounds fine,” he said, his voice guarded.

Mycroft slid a document across the desk; John read it, found everything in order, and signed.

“Excellent,” said Mycroft, slipping the paper into his briefcase. “I’ll be heading back to London this evening. Please keep your mobile on overnight in case my assistant or I need to get hold of you. Is there anything else you require?”

John thought. Nothing came to mind. He shook his head.

“I think you’ll do quite nicely,” said Mr. Holmes, looking genuinely pleased. He turned back to his paperwork.

John left, feeling for all the world that he was missing something.

 

***

 

Later that afternoon John met Molly Hooper, who took care of the estate’s two horses. As he approached the stables, he heard someone having a rather lengthy but one sided conversation in a peculiar tone of voice. Poking his head through the green-painted doors, he saw a young woman in muck-covered wellies sitting on a stool and talking to Toby, Lestrade’s dog. 

“Hello,” he called softly.

Her head shot up, long ponytail swishing. “Oh! Hi! I didn’t hear you!” She petted Toby’s ears one final time and stood up. “I’d offer to shake your hand but, um.” She held them up - her palms were dirty. “Been mucking out the stalls. Have you met Josie and Sam?”

John shook his head in the negative.

Molly stared at him. “The horses!” she said, finally realizing that John hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. “This one’s Sam,” she said, going over to the big chestnut that was currently eating hay in the farthest of the four stalls. “And Josie’s the black one. She’s outside. Gets a bit claustrophobic,” she added, as if revealing the horse’s deepest, darkest secret.

“Are they friendly?” asked John, joining her in front of the big animal.

“Oh yes. Well, Sam here is. He’s a big sweetie, really, but Josie can be temperamental sometimes. I guess we all feel like that. Nothing a bit of sunshine and some fresh air can’t fix. It’s been so beautiful lately.” The horse --Sam-- stopped munching and looked up at the woman, sharing some kind of secret communion. She reached up and stroked his muzzle.

“I’m John, by the way,” he said.

“Oh! Sorry. Molly. Molly Hooper.” She made to stick her hand out, remembered that it was dirty, and abandoned the shake in a strange, shy, finger-waggling wave.

“How long have you been taking care of the horses?”

“About a year now. Just a bit of extra cash. I’ve been around animals most of my life,” she explained. “I understand them, I guess. Sometimes better than people”. Molly chewed on her lower lip for a moment. She really was charming in her own way, John thought. Socially awkward, yes, but kind. “Actually,” she said, finally deciding to share something more personal, “I’m going to study histopathology.” 

“Really?” At least she wouldn’t need bedside manner, thought John.

“I haven’t taken my MRCP exams yet. My grandmother’s rather unwell --liver failure-- so I’m staying close until she...you know. Then, back to London!”

“I was in the RAMC.”

“I know. But you got shot.” She instantly swore under her breath. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s really private. I don’t think sometimes.”

“It’s fine.”

Sam whinnied. “He wants his stall back,” she said as if she were interpreting. “Be patient!” she said to the horse. “You make such a mess, you big brute.”

“Well, enjoy your day,” said John, leaving her to the horses. “See you around?”

She smiled then, brown eyes twinkling. “I will. And, if you’d like, I can show you around a bit more.”

“That sounds nice, Molly. Thank you.”

She blushed, picked up a pitchfork, and waved it in a bit of a salute. A piece of straw fell in her hair. 

John wondered, as he limped back to the house, if everyone at Holmes Hall was just a bit not right.


	5. A Cry In The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John gains his bearings and begins to feel like himself again. But is he alone at Holmes Hall?

Chapter 5: A Cry in the Night

John’s first weeks at the clinic went fairly well. Sarah Sawyer was pleasant as well as competent, and John hoped that maybe he’d find the courage to ask her out for dinner sometime. The mornings were fairly busy, too, and he’d forgotten that while general practice lacked the intensity of field trauma, it presented its own set of challenges (like trying to see into a toddler’s mouth or convincing an embarrassed teen to confess he’d had rather a lot of unprotected sex). 

He started swimming in the pool to build up his strength and mobility, and he rode his bicycle to the train station on work days: might as well keep trying to get his leg to cooperate. The bloody thing gave him trouble when he least expected it to, even though he knew that there was no physiological reason for it to still be acting up. Sometimes his thigh just ached, and he’d lie in a hot bath, trying not to look at the scar, which still looked comically like a purple arrow pointing to his penis. That particular organ had been completely neglected since his injury. He rarely, if ever, woke with an erection, and the three times he tried to pleasure himself had failed miserably, ending in flaccidity and frustration. He always had struggled with emotional intimacy, but physical intimacy had always come so easy to him, second nature, really. He’d had a small but trim body, his face wasn’t unpleasant, and while women tended to think he was more “cute” than “gorgeous,” he knew he wasn’t a bad-looking man. Now, having lost most of the muscles he’d maintained simply by carrying his pack, he felt weak and damaged and scarred. 

He couldn’t do much about being damaged or scarred, but the weak he could work on, and if getting fit again started with swimming and cycling to the train station, so be it. Eventually he’d like to get the motorbike out and just ride around for a while. There were the Bolton Priory ruins he wanted to see, and the local roads ran forever, twisting and turning through moorlands and hamlets. 

Burnett Thwaite itself was not necessarily unique among Yorkshire’s rural villages. Beside the run-of-the-mill small grocery and petrol station, it boasted a small art gallery, a B&B, and an antiques store. Russell Chapman, one of the town’s oldest residents, owned the antique shop, and John found himself popping in once a week or so to say hello after working in Leeds in the morning. Chapman was long-sighted and had a mole on the side of his forehead that John thought should probably be biopsied. He was friendly enough, in a reserved, respectful way, and let John poke around the shop in peace. When John asked, though, Chapman would launch into a long-winded tale of how he acquired each object and what it was worth. John liked him. By the end of his first month in Gargrave, John had met Marjorie Gant, the owner of the tea room and baker of excellent chocolate pastries; Charlie Shuttleworth, the librarian; Adam Owens, the postman; and Jackie Metcalf, who ran the pub.

Before he knew it, it was the end of March, and the leaves were budding and the snowdrops and bluebells were pushing their way out of the ground. Lestrade, in his spare time, showed John various gardens on the property, naming off plant after plant and when it was expected to bloom. John couldn’t follow. He knew very little about green and growing things, but there seemed to be something very satisfying in gardening, something very masculine and natural, more sweat and hard work than he’d expected, and John decided to maybe learn a bit so he could help out. Mrs. Hudson had a vase of various sorts of daffodils on the kitchen table one day, prompting John to take out his phone and attempt to identify them. Mrs. Hudson, amused, brought him a book on basic gardening from the upstairs library and he took to reading it on the train. 

A few flowering trees broke into blossom, and hyacinths, tulips, daffodils and crocuses stretched themselves toward the sun, which was slowly but surely warming the earth. John no longer needed the heavy duvet at night, the countryside finally throwing off its nightly blanket of frost. Things were almost settling into a routine, for which John was appreciative. 

That was until one night, when his sleep was interrupted by the chattering blades of Mycroft’s helicopter. 

Thankfully the sound didn’t give him a night terror, but he got up and went to the window nonetheless. Mycroft’s familiar figure climbed out of the helicopter. Another man --Lestrade?-- came to his assistance, and together they helped a third figure out of the machine. He couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like the newcomer wasn’t walking well on his own.

Odd, thought John, and climbed back into bed. He slept well the rest of the night.

***

The next morning Mycroft joined John and Mrs. Hudson for breakfast. John had to work, so he ate hurriedly and skimmed over the morning paper. 

“I’ll not be staying long,” said Mycroft. “I just wanted to see how everything was going for you.”

“It’s fine,” said John around a mouthful of egg. “Nice, really. Quiet. Peaceful.”

“He’s learned all about the daffodils,” said Mrs. Hudson, smiling proudly. “Next is lilacs. I do love the lilacs. Such a beautiful colour, but oh, the smell. Just heavenly. And we’ve got three different varieties. Soon after, the roses begin.” 

John wondered if she’d been at her secret stash already this morning. “You don’t mind if I do a bit of gardening?” asked John.

“Mind?” scoffed Mycroft. “I’d hardly be able to tell. Do as much as you like, if it suits you.”

“Thanks. Where’s your other guest?”

“What ‘other guest’?” 

“The man who got out of the helicopter with you. Can I be of assistance? He didn’t look well.”

Mycroft’s face was completely impassive. “You must have been mistaken. There was only me.”

John narrowed his eyes. There were two arrivals via helicopter last night, he was sure of it. He opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off.

“Now, John, I do believe you have a train to catch? You mustn't be late.” Mycroft said pointedly. 

John glanced at his watch. Damn. He took one last bite and folded up his paper. Mycroft busied himself with whatever paperwork he’d brought with him. Discussion over. _Keep your secrets,_ he thought. _It’s no concern of mine._

***

Working the morning shift allowed for some recreational time in the afternoon, and that day John finally put on his old jeans and went to find Lestrade. 

“You’ve got to get all this dead stuff out,” said the gardener, grabbing a fistful of slimy brown grasses. “This stuff is last year’s daylilies. And this is ornamental grass. All this has got to get pulled out. It’s rotting and it chokes out the new growth. Got to get down in the dirt, use your hands. If it won’t come out with a gentle tug, use the clippers. Give all this stuff here, these green parts, room to breathe.” 

“Would you like some help?”

“Go ahead,” said Lestrade, attacking a particularly recalcitrant mass of tangled, dead foliage. “Just don’t pull anything green without checking with me first, OK? Bloody stuff’s as stubborn as the ex,” he muttered. “You ever been married?”

Well, this was new. Lestrade had been pretty buttoned-up about his personal life until now. “No,” John replied, getting comfortable on the ground. He couldn’t kneel like Lestrade on account of his bad leg, but if he sat with it out to the side, he could still manage to get at the dead plants.

“Well, don’t be in a rush about it.”

“How long were you married?” John asked, sensing the man wanted to talk a bit.

“Ten years. The first few were really great, right?” Lestrade sat up a bit, brushed his gloved hands on his jeans, and reached into his jacket for a water bottle. “Then it all went to hell. I used to do police work. Was a detective inspector in Leeds for nearly twenty years. I guess you can only be really devoted to a woman or really devoted to a being a cop.” He took a sip of his water. “After the divorce I went through a bit of a tough time. Had to take an early retirement. I moved out here, and now it’s just me and the earth. Don’t have to deal with other people’s shite all day. The flowers, they don’t talk back or miss you if you’re gone, you know?”

John nodded.

“Do you miss it?” Lestrade asked after a period of the two of them pulling up fistfulls of dead grass. “The army?”

“Yeah,” said John. “Every day.” He wanted to say more, he really did, but the words were stuck. Lestrade seemed to understand, though, and so they worked in fairly companionable silence for the rest of the afternoon. By the time they cleared the entire bed and carted the mess over to the compost heap, John was sore and sweaty and felt wonderful. He ate a cold supper by himself, took a swim, and then retired to his room where he composed a short but rather funny (he thought, anyway) entry about spring fever in his blog.

Then he went to sleep and slept soundly. 

Until the screaming began.

***

John lay in bed, catching his breath after being wrenched out of sleep by a faint but horrible noise. Whatever he’d thought he’d heard had stopped. It must have been the wind through the moors again, that strange, mourning, howling cry. Outside, rain tapped against the old windowpanes, muffled by the thick velvet curtains. He resolved to go back to sleep, but no sooner had he snuggled back down under the duvet than he heard it again; this time he was sure it wasn’t the wind. 

No, that was a person. It was very faint, somewhere in the massive house, but John’s ears recognized a person in pain. What the bloody fuck was going on? Was _this_ what he was hired to do? Chase howling ghosts in the night?

The sound came again; this time the hairs on John’s arm stood at attention. Jesus. It sounded like someone was dying. And God knows he knew what that sounded like.

Wishing for his pistol, John got out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around him, grabbed the fireplace poker, and carefully opened the heavy oak door of his room. The corridor was long and dark. Tall ceilings loomed above him. The spike of adrenaline, however, was unexpectedly welcome. He listened; there was the noise again. Not from this corridor, no, but maybe from the floor above him? Sweat prickled under his arms despite the chill in the air. He hoisted the heavy poker with thankfully little protest from his shoulder. 

Makeshift weapon at the ready, John crept along the wall heading south toward the kitchens and main hallway. He hadn’t had any reason to explore the upper floor of the house, and he paused at the base of the west wing stairwell. It was very dark, so he went back to his room to get a torch before continuing. Once at the top of the stairs, John started down the west wing corridor, pausing every once and a while to listen. Nothing but the wind. He stopped at the end of the hall, where an old painting of a surly-looking bearded old man stared at him from the beam of his small torch, before turning around to face the length of the velvet blackness. All seemed quiet. Methodically, he paused door to door, listening briefly before moving on. Eventually the west wing met the main hall, and it turned abruptly to the left. Here the hallway was wider. His investigation yielded nothing, however; he was stopped by a plastic tarpaulin that covered the entire east wing hallway. John listened intently. Nothing.

He doubled back, took the main staircase down, and slowly made his way back. The distressing and mysterious noise never repeated, however, and he passed the rest of the night wondering exactly what secrets the house held. 

The next morning he asked Mrs. Hudson over breakfast.

“It’s so nice to cook for someone else again,” she tittered as she dipped bread into eggs. “Lestrade’s a nice man, but he so rarely stays for supper unless Mycroft is around. Meals used to be such a special time, and we’d all gather together in here -- not in that stuffy old dining room unless we had some special guests, mind you -- and we’d talk and drink nice wine and it was lovely.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” began John, “who came with Mycroft the other night?”

The housekeeper stopped short. “No one, of course,” she lied. 

“No one.”

“Not a soul.” 

“Well that’s odd, Mrs. Hudson, since last night there was someone making a hell of a racket, screaming, and if you tell me that it was Mycroft Holmes having a bit of a nightmare, I won’t believe you.”

She’d opened her mouth and then shut it again. 

“Two people came in that helicopter. And you’re making a mountain of eggy bread. More than three people could eat.”

Mrs. Hudson squared her shoulders and pointed the spatula at him. “Young man,” she said sternly, “I’m not sure what you thought you saw or heard. But there was no one screaming and I simply thought that you might have a healthy appetite.”

John looked at her sceptically.

“It was probably an old farm cat. They get feisty at night, you know. Fighting. And _you know_.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. Then she turned back to her cooking and said nothing else on the matter. 

John didn’t attempt to ask for more.

 

***

 

The more John thought about the noise he heard the night before, the more anxious he became. Not a nervous anxious, or troubled anxious, no; it was more of a tingle of anticipation, the odd feeling that coiled at the base of one’s gut right before something _big_ was going to happen, as if something serendipitous --or delightfully dangerous-- were right around the corner. It made him feel restless and itchy, as if what he had really been hired to do was about to begin. And if he were going to be considered security staff, he may as well perform the job to the best of his ability, or be accused of not earning his keep. He needed his gun. For the last fifteen years of his life, it had been an extension of his body, as necessary to his identity as a field trauma surgeon as his fingers. He was lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss it, didn’t sometimes imagine its weight against his side, deeply miss the routine of assembling and cleaning it. If Mycroft really wanted him to protect his estate, John would need something a bit more powerful than his fists.

John found Mycroft in his office at the front of the house. “May I speak to you?”

Mycroft took off his reading glasses and looked up. “I’m not your father,” he said, trying for levity -- and failing. “Of course.”

John took a seat across from him. “I need a gun.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows nearly marched right off his forehead. He put down his pen and laced his fingers together. “I couldn’t possibly imagine why.”

“You employed me as a security guard and somewhere in this house someone _screamed_ last night, and I know it wasn’t you, so I bloody well need a pistol.”

“I’m not giving you an illegal firearm. Or any gun, for that matter.”

Mycroft stared at him. John stared back.

“When was the last time you fired a weapon?” Mycroft asked. “Since Afghanistan. Your psychiatrist was concerned you were suicidal. You also have a tremor in your dominant hand. Many soldiers with PTSD can never shoot again. What makes you think you can?”

“Because I can.”

“You don’t know that.” 

“Fine,” John said at last. “Then I’m out. You can stay here in this place yourself or take on someone else. I heard someone. A real person, screaming fit to wake the dead. Don’t tell me that it’s my PTSD or my imagination. I know what I heard.” _And if you tell me it was nothing,_ he thought, _I will personally shove that umbrella of yours up your lying arse._

Mycroft studied his fingernails and appeared to be choosing his next words very carefully. “Have you hunted for sport?” 

“I shoot very well.” A muscle twitched in John’s jaw.

“That is not what I asked.” Another long pause. “Dr. Watson, I assure you that there is no need for a deadly weapon within Holmes Hall, regardless of what you think you might have heard. But if you really would like to, you may use a shotgun for hunting. My father’s over-under is in the study. We have an abundance of pheasant, and if you’re keen you may hunt on the property. Rabbits are plentiful, and there are foxes that are occasionally troublesome, as well. I must caution you, however, that under no circumstances should you keep a weapon in your room or carry it while fulfilling your security duties. If I find that you do so, you will find yourself facing more dire consequences than simply having your contract terminated. And trust me, Doctor, I will know if you do. Now. If your trigger finger’s feeling...neglected...take it out on the birds. Or there’s a shooting range a few miles east.”

John sniffed. It wasn’t the response he was looking for, but it would have to do. He had a feeling that Mycroft’s ‘dire consequences’ were akin to being relocated to Serbia or something of the like. 

“Pheasant’s not in season.”

“It’s not an issue, Doctor Watson.”

“Right.” Then, “I don’t have a current firearm certificate.”

Mycroft smiled one of his smarmy smiles, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That won’t be a problem either. And for God’s sake, don’t shoot anyone.” 

Mysteries, thought John after his dismissal. The place was wrapped in secrets. _Don’t shoot anyone_. From the way the man was talking, John was beginning to wonder if he was really hired not to protect the property, but maybe someone on it. Maybe he wasn’t hired to keep someone _out_. Perhaps he was hired to keep someone _in_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for Canola Crush and BettySwallocks for editing/Britpicking/cheerleading. 
> 
> I promise Sherlock's in this story. You have to wait until chapter 7, though. Sorry! (But not really).


	6. The Garden Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets his mojo back, and finds something hidden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: John hunts small game birds in this chapter and there is mention of a trophy room with taxidermy. If that puts you off, please skip! You won't miss too much plot.

Chapter Six: The Garden Key

The screaming in the night did not repeat itself, thank God, but John was constantly listening for it, and once while he was poking around in the courtyard garden, he swore he felt someone watching him. He was glad his ultimatum somewhat worked on Mycroft; he was actually beginning to rather enjoy digging in the dirt and he’d started taking the motorbike around the countryside (at speeds faster than were allowed, of course). He really didn’t want to find another place to stay. Living at Holmes Hall wasn’t exciting, exactly, but he wasn’t bored anymore. He didn’t feel any threat of physical danger, either, but he wanted to be prepared. 

More than anything, though, he also just really wanted to shoot something again.

The beautiful gun was actually on display in a large room on the north side of the main hall. John had taken to calling it the “safari room” in homage to the exotic taxidermy hung along its walls. The walls were rich teak, making him feel as if he were in an old museum wildlife exhibition rather than someone’s personal estate. It smelled vaguely of pipe tobacco and gun oil and woodsmoke: the massive stone fireplace had escaped conversion to gas and still burned real logs. It was a place where men sat and sipped brandy while they told wild, exaggerated stories of their conquests and triumphs over the animal kingdom. John didn’t necessarily condone the hunting of large African beasts, but it didn’t make him uncomfortable, either. Harriet would have been mortified.

He took the shotgun from the wall and sat at the desk that was obviously placed there for cleaning the weapons. It felt odd to hold a gun again; the shotgun was heavier than he remembered his rifle being. It had been a long time since he’d fired anything that wasn’t army-issued. The desk held everything he’d need to tend to a firearm. Methodically, he took it apart, inspected it, oiled it up, and then rubbed it down with a soft cotton cloth until it shone.

Then he put it right back on the wall with his shaking hands and had a panic attack in his room.

He tried again later that evening, and this time managed to dismantle the weapon, clean it again, and reassemble it without a single tremor.

He spent the night with his ears open, but heard nothing. In the morning, shooting was the first thing he thought of, and he promised Mrs. Hudson that he’d bring back a nice brace of pheasants for the evening meal. He found Toby in the stable, who perked right up at the sight of a man in hunting gear with a gun. The dog happily left his master and trotted out to the pheasant run where the long grass eventually turned into the scrubby heather of the moor. John walked along, the shotgun broken over his arm, taking in beauty of the countryside. He was nearly ready to send Toby into the brush when a bevy of quail suddenly flew up around him, chirping at being disturbed.

The next thing he knew, he was back on the ground, face-down, arms over his head. No sooner than his body betrayed him than he began to cry, angry tears flowing unstoppably and making his nose run, dirt and bits of leaves sticking to his face as he lay there hating himself. Toby lay down next to him, as if to say, “Hey there, human friend. It’s all right. Happens to the best of us.” 

Needless to say, Mrs. Hudson did not receive her pheasants. 

The next two days John was determined to shoot a bird if his life depended on it. Toby flushed pheasants left and right and John couldn’t hit a single one, his shots off by what felt like a mile. Lestrade didn’t even ask how it went when John returned the dog.

His shoulder ached and he felt more worthless than ever. Back in his room, he took out his anger on the resistance band (evil blue bastard!), and when he still felt like shit afterward, decided to take advantage of the pool.

Exhausted but more relaxed after a long swim, he rang Harry, just to let her know he was staying on in Gargrave. He lay on his bed in a vest and pyjama bottoms, the phone tucked in between his cheek and shoulder, and told her about the strangest week he’d had in a long time. 

“We’re a completely motley crew, Har. I mean, the landlady’s a bit of a nutter who’s got a secret stash of pot growing in the greenhouse, the gardener is a burnt-out copper, the manager is a right bitch, the girl who does the horses has better conversations with animals than with people, the owner carries an umbrella and walks around like he has a stick up the arse, and now the security guard-- that’s me, by the way-- can’t even shoot a pheasant if his life depended on it.”

Harry actually laughed. “Look, Johnny, you’re thinking about it too hard. Just stop thinking about it. Isn’t that what granddad always said?”

“Aren’t you going to give me grief about it, then? Shooting birds?”

Harry sighed. “Why? I mean, what’s the point. I know you think that you left some part of yourself back there, in Afghanistan, and you’re going to believe it until you don’t anymore. But you’re still you. You’re steady. You always have been. Get your fucking shit together.”

“I’m _trying,_ Harriet.”

“Quit trying. Just do it.”

“Yeah. Since you’ve had such luck with it.” He instantly regretted it, although he didn’t take it back. “Harry, it’s just that…”

“No, you’re right,” she interrupted. “You’re right. But Johnny, that’s the difference between us. You don’t even need to think about things. You wear your heart on your sleeve and make the tough calls and march into danger without a thought about yourself. You fix people. But you don’t have to fix yourself. Because you’re not really broken, not like I am.”

“Not broken! I’m depressed. I’ve got PTSD. Fucking hell, Harry, I’m scared to shoot. I can’t do surgery, I can’t go more than two nights without a nightmare, and I have a fucking piece of metal holding my shoulder together!”

“Congratulations, you. Shall I start on my list now, or do you know it all by heart already?”

“You’re always so kind, Harriet,” he said sarcastically. He lay on his bed, feeling very tired and small. 

“Johnny,” said Harry at last, “I do love you. I’m worried. Just get better.” 

“Ladies first, sis.”

Harry didn’t have anything to say to that, so she abruptly rang off, and John was left holding her old mobile. _We Watsons,_ he thought. _Doomed for dysfunctional interpersonal relationships._

With a sigh, he turned on the small telly and stopped thinking for the night.

***

In the morning, John shaved carefully. He dressed warmly. He cleaned his weapon. He squared his shoulders and remembered who he was: John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, army doctor, trauma surgeon, and one hell of a good shot.

***

BOOM! The rapport of the shotgun echoed off the house. In the white-gray sky, a pheasant turned topsy-turvy and tumbled to the ground.

“YES!” shouted John, sounding for all the world like an excited teenager. “YES! Take that, arsehole!” 

Toby bounded into the brush and came back, the bird in his mouth. He dropped it at John’s side and sat obediently. John did a little victory dance right there under the big open sky before reaching into his pocket for a doggie treat. About fucking time. “Feel like pheasant tonight, mate?” he asked, scratching the dog’s ears. He reloaded. “Let’s go. Flush ‘em out, that’s it, off you go.” The dog took off. John pumped the shotgun. 

“Oh yeah,” he said to himself as the next group of birds took to the sky. “Oh yeah.”

He shot what would have been his limit if the season were open (just how much power DID Mycroft Holmes have, anyway? Enough to have the authorities turn a blind eye to illegal game hunting, at the least) and turned back to the house. Insteading of going in the front, however, he walked behind Holmes Hall to bring Toby back to Lestrade, who was probably still tinkering around in his shop. 

When the search for Toby’s owner proved fruitless, John headed back to the house. Toby bounded ahead without his leash, stopping to sniff and lift his leg. John walked slowly; adrenaline now gone, his leg was acting up again, and managing his cane, his bag, and the shotgun was proving difficult. But the weather was beautiful, the lilacs were blooming, he’d shot some birds, and life might just be tolerable, after all.

He reached the courtyard between the two massive wings of the manor house and sat on a bench next to the old fountain. The structure was starting to crumble; it would need a stonemason soon. Toby sniffed around the courtyard as John sat and relaxed, but then soon became occupied with something. John didn’t give it much thought until he saw the dog start to paw at the ground.

“What’ve you got there, boy?” he asked, using his cane to pull himself up. He left his birds on the bench as he went over to the other side of the fountain, where a few rose bushes formed a semicircle around a sculpture of a faun with panpipes. Toby was pawing at one of the flagstones that surrounded the sculpture that apparently had cracked and loosened. Crouching down, John cleared away some dirt and stray dead leaves. His fingers felt the edge of the stone, and he pulled it up easily.

Below there was a small tin box, no bigger than a cigarette packet. At one time it must have been painted with what looked like a Parisian scene, but most of the paint had worn off, and it was caked with rust. The box opened with little effort, however, and inside were two keys. One was of the old, brass skeleton variety, and the other, a modern mortice. John knelt there, his gun and birds on the bench nearly forgotten. He knew, without a doubt, that he was holding the keys to the locked garden. 

Toby took a sniff, found it uninteresting after all, and made for the door. John pocketed the keys, replaced the tin and covered it back up with the stone, retrieved his gun and birds, and followed the dog.

He, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson had delightful roast pheasant for supper, and after a game of snooker with the two of them (turned out Mrs. Hudson wasn’t half bad), John retired for the night.

He pulled the keys to the secret garden from his pocket and placed them in the drawer of the nightstand. _Well, I’ve got the keys,_ he said to himself. _Now all I’ve got to do is find the bloody door._


	7. Behind the Tapestry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally meets Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the Secret Garden was my favorite as a child. I loved the initial reaction of Mary to Colin, and Colin's interest in her. Reworking that for this fic was really difficult. Obviously John wouldn't hold Sherlock's hand and sing to him on the night he meets him, so I had to get creative. I hope it meets your expectations.

Chapter 7: Behind the Tapestry

John couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t heard any screaming in the night since the initial incident, but his intuition told him that he wasn’t the only lodger in the house. Mrs. Hudson was cooking more than necessary and appeared worried. Molly was even more on edge. Even Lestrade, who was becoming less of an acquaintance and more of a friend, seemed on guard. 

On an impulse, John rose from bed and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He decided it was time to do a more thorough investigation of the house, namely the east wing that he was beginning to doubt was really closed for renovations at all: he hadn’t seen a single builder since he’d arrived.

He put on his trainers and dug his torch out of the wardrobe. Quietly he slipped from his room and took the north staircase to the upper level of the house. He’d been upstairs since the initial screaming incident, mainly to use the library. The west wing’s rooms were former servant’s quarters, and had been redesigned to sleep two. He turned the knob completely before opening each door, trying to be as stealthy as he could. Once he made sure the coast was clear, he went on to the next. He made his way methodically down the corridor, finding and hearing nothing aside from the occasional gust of wind.

He was just starting into the upstairs library when he actually _did_ hear something -- a muffled shout, and then maybe a retching, followed by what sounded like breaking china. Every hair on his body stood on end. For a moment, he considered going down to the study to grab the shotgun, but thought better of it. Keeping close to the wall, he moved slowly down the main hallway toward the east; each room was empty, and everything was still. 

Finally he arrived at the black plastic tarpaulin covering the east wing hallway. Fuck it, he thought, and, as quietly as he could, peeled the tape away until he could slip past. He palmed his torch and stuck close to the wall, trying to calm his heartbeat.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of anything that smelled or looked like renovation: no paint or sawdust, no carpentry tools or ladders. He listened intently, but heard nothing more. Turning the corner, John risked shining the light down the long expanse of corridor. No ghosts there. And no building work, either. The wool runner under his feet was clean. A table in the hallway was dust-free. Odd.

He reached the first room on the right and tried the door: it was unlocked, so he let himself in, prepared for anything. It was completely empty, void of furniture or mysterious people. The next three rooms on both sides were also empty. He continued on until he reached the end. The last room, however, was actually furnished. As far as John could tell through the small beam of his torch, it was a room someone had actually lived in. Feeling oddly compelled, he stepped in for a closer look around. Books lined a shelf. He glanced at the titles -- a mix of mathematical texts, popular bestsellers, a few gardening photography books. There were photographs, too, hung on the walls: a family portrait of a man, tall and thin with a kind face, and woman with long blonde hair. She had a face like a fox: clever and mischievous, cunning, even. She looked proud of her family, though, and she had her arms around her two sons, one a tall teen, the other a small, bored-looking boy with a mop of curly black hair. There was a photo that was obviously a younger Mycroft Holmes in his graduation robes, and a picture of an Irish setter with the curly-haired boy, the his arms around the dog’s neck. At once John felt like an intruder, realizing that the room must have belonged to the late Mrs. and Mr. Holmes. He quickly left, closing the door quietly behind him. Nothing there but old memories.

Perplexed, John stood at the end of the hallway and looked at it from the opposite directly. Had he missed something? He was positive he’d heard the sound from the east wing, and he’d checked every room. Something simply didn’t make sense. Maybe the noise came from downstairs? He walked toward the south again, counting doors as he went. Five on the left, four on the right. Shouldn’t there be another door? Unless there _were_ five doors -- and one of them was hidden. There, in the middle of the hallway, where the third door should be, hung a giant tapestry. Cautiously, John approached it and ran his fingers over the cloth. In the light of his torch he could see some bits of a medieval scene -- a woman with a cowl, a man with an ox. He found the edge and as quietly as he could, extended his arm underneath it. Ah ha! His fingers met a wooden door frame. Heart pumping faster, John insinuated himself behind the tapestry, felt for the handle, and slowly pushed the door inward. 

The first thing he registered was the smell -- the odour of a living human body that had been cooped up for too long without fresh air and a good shower. The second thing he knew was that he was being tackled to the ground by that body. In the dark, he grappled with someone quite a bit taller but not as strong as he was -- it wasn’t long before he had his assailant on the ground, with his knee in his lower back and his arm twisted behind him. He was pleasantly surprised that his body remembered what do to, damaged limbs and all.

“Ow!” said a baritone voice. “Ow! Get off!”

“The fuck I will,” stated John, breathing heavily. 

They stayed on the floor for a few minutes, the man under him squirming once and awhile before simply giving up and lying there, limp.

“Listen,” said John, “I’m going to get up and turn on the light. If you try anything, I _will_ hurt you.”

John found his torch and cane from where he had dropped them, then shone the light around the room until the beam passed over a lamp on a table near an unmade bed. Keeping his body turned to the man on the ground, he limped over to the lamp and switched it on. The man flipped himself over and his arm flew up to cover his face from the light, but slowly he lowered it and glared up at John with a mixture of hatred and intrigue.

“Are you a ghost?” he asked.

John blinked. “Not that I know of.”

“Pity. That would have at least been interesting.”

The man on the ground --a few years younger than John from the look of him-- tried to stand, but then appeared to give up and lay flat on his back, his arms tucked behind his head. John could see his T-shirt was soaked with sweat; his face looked pale and clammy. Looking around the room, from the untouched plates of food to the torn-apart bed to the big plastic mixing bowl on the bedside table to the shards of china by the wall, John quickly assessed that the man on the floor was the one he’d heard screaming the other night, and that he was likely very unwell. Maybe even dangerous. 

“Do you have any cocaine?” asked the man from the floor. 

“What? No!”

“What about cigarettes?” 

“No,” said John, again, completely baffled. That was one hell of a way to start a conversation.

“God, I’m dying for one. Does my brother know you’re here?”

“Who?”

“My brother. Tall annoying git.” His eyes narrowed. “Mycroft Holmes. Did he send you?”

“No. I…” He paused and looked around. “I heard you the other night. Screaming. Thought someone might be in trouble. I’m not even supposed to be here. I was explicitly told to stay out of the east wing.”

The man on the ground looked impressed at John’s transgression. “Oh, I’m in trouble, all right. But if you don’t have any cigarettes, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to piss off so I can wallow in my misery in peace.” 

John narrowed his eyes. “Are you _on something_?”

“Was. Lots of things. Quite a lot of cocaine. Bit of heroin -- helps with the comedowns, but the withdrawal is nasty. Some tramadol. Valium. But my ever-so-gallant white knight of a brother decided to butt his fat head into my business and kidnap me to detox. Seems I gave the rehab centre a bit of a tough go the last time and they didn’t want me back. Dreadful places, rehab centres.” John watched as the other man’s eyes -- as bloodshot and red-rimmed as they were-- looked him over. “But you know about those, don’t you? So. Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said after a moment.

“I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You heard me. I do detest repeating myself.”

“Afghanistan. How did you…?” John trailed off as the man attempted to stand. Finally realising that he proved no threat, John reached out to help him get up. The man’s hand was huge and much too warm, and he let go as soon as he was upright. He climbed into his bed and leaned his head full of curly, sweat-soaked hair against the headboard. The man was obviously the little boy from the photos, although now his face was angular and aristocratic.

“Your tone of voice suggested that you were accustomed to giving orders. You took me down easily enough with a move that was not martial arts but rather a hand-to-hand combat military technique. I can’t quite tell in this light, but I’d guess your hands are still tan. Your cane over there tells me that you were injured so it’s likely you’ve been honourably discharged. You were brazen enough to go into areas you were explicitly told not to enter, so either you’re courageous or very stupid. I’m betting on the bravery, which is probably why you were injured in the first place. You were searching for someone who was in trouble, or...wounded. Fucking hell. You’re a doctor. A military doctor.” His eyes widened as if he had some tremendous epiphany. “Oh! I see! You’re my _babysitter_. For the love of Christ -- MYCROFT!” he bellowed.

John gaped. “He’s not here. And that was incredible!”

The man lifted his head. “Really? That’s not what people usually say.” He looked genuinely surprised.

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off.”

In spite of himself, John laughed. 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes,” said the man in the bed, not bothering to extend his hand for a formal introduction. “And I’m a brilliant high-functioning sociopath with a drug problem. Nice to meet you. Now get the fuck out.”

***

John left, completely floored by what had just happened. Mystery solved, at least. So this was the younger brother with issues. Big issues, from the looks of it. If he wanted to detox in misery, so be it. It wasn’t any of John’s business. He had his own issues, thank you very much.

And yet...

He made it to the plastic tarpaulin before turning around and walking slowly back down the hallway before letting himself back into Sherlock’s room.

“You again?” said Sherlock, who hadn’t moved.

“I’m not a babysitter,” said John, crossing his arms. “But I really am a doctor. How bad is it?”

“Awful.”

“You should be in a clinic.”

“Bor-ing,” sang Sherlock.

“Meth-adone,” John sang back. “Have you stopped vomiting yet?”

Sherlock sighed. “No.”

“How many days has it been?”

“Seven.”

“Good God.”

“I haven’t slept for almost 72 hours, either. I don’t sleep much as it is, but I’d rather be sleeping than rolling around in my own sweat.” He plucked at his t-shirt. “Disgusting.” 

“I could probably get you something if you come with me tomorrow to the clinic and I…”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “No. It’s almost over. The worst has passed.”

“You’ve done this before, then.”

Sherlock shot him a withering look. 

“You’ll kill yourself one day if you keep it up,” said John, moving to stand closer. The plastic bowl on the bedside table held thin, mucousy vomit. “Can I take your pulse, at least?”

Sherlock held out an arm. John held his wrist gently. Pulse slightly elevated, nothing too alarming. The man really did have gigantic hands. “Look. Why don’t you get cleaned up? Get this,” he gestured to the bowl, “out of here, and try to have a cup of tea with lots of sugar. Get your blood sugar back up a bit. You have clean sheets in here somewhere?”

Sherlock stared at him, brows drawn together, a little crease forming above his nose. “It’s 2am.”

“I’ll never be able to sleep if I know you’re up here wallowing in your own filth.”

“Sheets are in the linen cupboard.”

“There you go. Please tell me you have a kettle in here.”

Sherlock nodded toward a table on the far side of the room, and then made a visible effort to get out of bed, taking the dirty bowl with him. He paused by the bathroom door as John began to pull off the sheets. “I’ve just met you,” he said, still looking rather out of his element. 

“Yeah.”

“Who _are_ you?”

“I think you’ve already figured out the important bits. I’m John Watson. Nobody special.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him a moment more before shutting himself in what must be the bathroom. John remade the bed and made tea and felt very useful indeed.

***

Sherlock appeared 15 minutes later looking less pale and smelling significantly better.

“Feel better?”

“Clean, at least.”

“Great. Now have a cuppa and try again. Sometimes fresh sheets will do wonders.”

Sherlock nodded, but said nothing.

“Well, I’m in the ‘carnation room’ downstairs. If you need something. And I’m serious. If you want to come into the clinic I can help you.”

“If you want to help, bring me cigarettes,” he said irritably. “And if you see my brother, tell him I’m leaving in three days and he’d better not have taken the keys to my flat.”

John let himself out, struggling with the tapestry. _Tomorrow,_ he thought, _after work, I’m pulling that thing down._ He made it back to his room, but it took him a long time to fall asleep. _Sherlock Holmes_ , he thought. _What's your story?_


	8. Brilliant and Bizarre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of something beautiful... *snicker*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Bettyswallocks and CanolaCrush for beta work.

Chapter 8: Brilliant and Bizarre

John’s mind kept replaying his unusual meeting with Sherlock Holmes the night before, and he found himself distracted at work. When his shift ended, he stopped off at Boots and picked up a packet of nicotine patches. 

When he returned home, he made his way to the east wing, slipped past the tarp, and pulled the tapestry from its hangers. He dragged it over to the side so it was clear of the door. 

“Sherlock?” he called, tapping softly with a knuckle.

“Go away!”

John tried the door and found it locked.

“It’s John Watson. I’ve got something for you.”

“GO. AWAY.”

John slid two nicotine patches under the door. He took the rest back to his room, pulled on his old clothes, which had now been relegated to gardening attire, tucked the keys to the hidden garden into his pocket and headed out. 

He checked to make sure Lestrade or Molly wasn’t around before spending a good half hour studying the back wall of the enclosed garden. The entire thing was covered in ivy, and by the time he was finished wrestling with it he wanted to set it all on fire. It was just too thick and had anchored itself into the crumbling brick. He was sure the door wasn’t there. Frustrated but undeterred, he walked, cane in hand, around the side. Looking up, he scanned the windows. There was the middle one, the room where Sherlock was. And the last one, the one that had been Mycroft and Sherlock’s parents’. Then, it hit him. The Holmes’ room overlooked the locked garden. All he’d have to do is go back and look down. Surely he could see the door that way.

He didn’t fancy heading back up there at the moment, however. If Sherlock wanted privacy, that was understandable. Heroin withdrawal was truly unpleasant to watch; he couldn’t imagine how it felt.

Instead, he ventured into the walled garden and found Lestrade contemplating a rose bush. It looked green and healthy to John, but Lestrade’s brow was creased.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Oh. John. Hi. These things. Hybrid tea roses. Pain in the arse. If they don’t have bugs, they have mould. If they don’t have mould, they have bugs. And this one? This one hasn’t bloomed in years and I’ll be damned if I can’t figure out why. It’s starting to bud, here, see? But these will just rot and fall off in a few weeks and that’s that.”

“I’ve heard roses are finicky.”

“Well, especially this one.”

“What’s it called?” John had learned that roses, the prize racehorses of gardens, had extensive and complicated nomenclature.

Lestrade sniffed and wiped his brow. “Now there’s the problem. I don’t know, honestly. It’s never bloomed for me, so I can’t figure it out. I was going to tear up the bloody thing, but Mycroft seems to want it for some blasted reason, so I’m keeping at it. Maybe it’s the soil pH. Lack of potassium or something. Fussy bugger.” He swatted at the thing with his glove, as if bullying it a bit would give it the impetus to bloom. “But the old roses are nearly ready. Come have a look.”

John walked with Lestrade to the back of the garden. Along the wall that separated the large walled area from the private --and locked-- garden, a mass of climbing roses clung to rickety-looking wooden supports attached to the wall. There were hundreds of swollen flower buds on every branch.

“It’s called ‘Mme Alfred Carrière’ and smells like heaven,” said Lestrade. “These are old. Heirloom, too, been here at least sixty years, maybe longer. Roses take a bit of care -- got to prune them carefully so they don’t get too gnarled and barky. But these particular ones, climbers, I can basically let alone and they do their thing.”

John was fairly sure the door wouldn’t be behind an ancient rosebush, but the rest of the wall was hidden by ivy and decorative shrubbery. “Do you ever prune the ivy?” he asked, hoping to get something out of Lestrade. 

“Ha! No. You don’t prune ivy. You hack at it if it gets overgrown. Bloody stuff clings like a limpet.”

“Does it grow quickly?”

“Depends. These here are fairly new plants. Not like the stuff on the front of the house. Need napalm to get that off. Been there for decades.”

John decided not to push his luck any further. He felt that somehow Lestrade’s loyalty lay with Mycroft, and while Mycroft was letting him live at Holmes Hall free of charge, John was feeling rather annoyed that he was likely offered the position to be just what Sherlock had suggested earlier: a babysitter, someone who would prevent an angry drug addict from damaging the property. John felt no loyalty to either man, he supposed, but he felt sympathetic to the younger brother’s plight, simply out of doctorly concern. Plus, something about the man was fascinating. John couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Sherlock was exceptional, he was sure of it. Maybe a madman, but an exceptional one. Once Sherlock was clean and sober, though, what would happen to John’s lodgings? Would he be dismissed and turned out into the world again? He hoped not. He was finally starting to feel, well, feel _something_ again. Hope? Possibility? Whatever it was, it was something.

“You want to go work on that fountain in the courtyard? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

John agreed, and on the way back to Lestrade’s garage, he swore he saw a curtain move, just a bit, in a certain upstairs window. 

***

John had settled in for the evening when he heard a noise in the corridor. Panic raced through his veins and he eyed the fireplace poker before steeling his resolve and taking a deep breath. He got quietly out of bed, tiptoed across the room, and flung open the door.

There, dressed in overlarge gray sweatpants and a ratty Radiohead t-shirt was a disheveled-looking Sherlock Holmes. He still hadn’t shaved, and his face was blotchy. His hair was starting to frizz. “More patches,” he said, and then pushed past John into the room and began rifling through the papers and things on John’s desk.

“Hey, wait a second,” said John, who was ignored completely. Sherlock attacked his wardrobe next. He looked like some overgrown rodent digging a burrow, jumpers and t-shirts flying behind him like clumps of dirt. John raised his voice. “Look, you crazy git, they’re in my bag.”

Sherlock stopped, turned around, held out his arm, and said, “Four.”

“I’m not giving you four, are you joking? You can have one.”

“Three.”

“Two. And no more.” John handed Sherlock two patches, which he promptly unpeeled and stuck to the inside of his forearm. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and looked like he was in the throes of ecstasy. Then he collapsed in John’s chair in front of the fireplace. 

“Oh thank god for these,” he said.

“Or you can thank me, since I bought them. Bloody expensive, too,” said John. 

Sherlock wiggled his bare toes on the carpet and closed his eyes.

“Not quite a cigarette,” he mumbled. 

“You’re welcome,” said John. “So…”

Sherlock showed no signs of leaving. John wasn’t quite sure what to do, so he stood there stupidly before putting the kettle on.

“I saw you outside today,” said Sherlock at length. “With Lestrade.” He dragged the name out comically. 

“Yeah.”

“He’s not completely incompetent. Bit of an anger problem. Drinks too much when he’s stressed. And he didn’t take an early retirement. He was fired.”

“And you’re telling me this because…”

“Because I’m bored and Lestrade annoys me. He’s been bothering my roses.”

“ _Your_ roses?”

“Do you always repeat yourself? Yes, my roses. When I was ten I created my own hybrid tea rose. Don’t repeat what I just said.”

John shut his mouth.

“My very own species. _R. Holmesia._. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not that difficult. I wasn’t splicing chromosomes or anything. Just very selective cultivation and cross-pollination done by hand. Lestrade’s out there trying to get it to bloom and he’s been doing it all wrong. Tea?” 

John frowned for a moment, then began steeping a cuppa for each of them. “How do you take it?”

“Hot.”

John rolled his eyes. He added two sugars and a splash of milk.

“What’s it look like? Your rose? Lestrade says he’s never seen it.”

“Rather striking, if I do say so. It’s a double bloom, deep plum that fades into a dark raspberry. Very fragrant, like honey.”

“You...like gardening, then?”

Sherlock held out his hand for the tea. Someone was just as pretentious as his brother. “Not particularly. I like roses. I enjoy being in gardens. Very good places to think. I am also fascinated by bees. It was my father’s passion, so naturally I picked up on a bit of it. Interesting chemistry involved. Decay is much more interesting than growth, to be honest.”

John dragged the other chair over to the fire and sat down. “Tea taste all right?”

Sherlock took a sip and nodded as if surprised. “It’s fine.” 

They sat there together, not saying anything. It was comfortable, though, not strained or awkward. 

“How are you feeling?” asked John eventually.

“The cravings are horrible. I usually can control my use. It got a bit out of hand.” He spoke so nonchalantly, as if overdosing were something mildly irksome that someone did occasionally by accident, like stubbing a toe or choking on spit.

“It’s incredibly addictive, you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m aware. And I can control the transport.”

“The what?”

Sherlock tucked his bare feet up under himself. “My brain is all I care about. Everything else...is just transport.”

“You do realise that any of those things you were taking kill brain cells, right? Bit counterintuitive.”

“Cocaine helps me think. Clarifies patterns, speeds up the process. Everything coalesces, crystallises, tessellates. And when I want to stop thinking, heroin. Ice on an inferno.”

“May I ask what you’re thinking about?”

“Patterns of aberrant human behavior. Crime, mainly.”

John nearly spit out his tea. “Crime? That’s rather ironic.” 

“Everything else is boring.”

“Don’t you, I don’t know, have a girlfriend or something?”

Sherlock made a distasteful face. “Not really my area.”

“Oh. Oh! Um, a boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s _fine_. And no.”

“Do you have a job?”

“Well, I was attempting to make a name for myself as a consulting detective. Someone the police can turn to when they are stumped, which is always, because most of them are idiots. Maybe I’d take private clients. I have a website,” he added proudly. 

“You also have a drug problem,” quipped John. 

“It’s not a problem!” yelled Sherlock, throwing his arms in the air. John hushed him, afraid that Mrs. Hudson would come storming in with a frying pan at any moment. “Fine,” he acquiesced after John looked at him pointedly. “It’s a small problem.” 

“You overdosed this time, didn’t you?”

“I despise that word.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

Sherlock finished his tea and left the cup on the table beside the chair. “Good night, John,” he said. And with that, he was gone. 

John sat in front of the fire, processing what had just happened, before retrieving his laptop. He opened his blog, changed the settings to private and wrote: **I met a rather unusual man today. He’s brilliant and bizarre. Opioid and stimulant abuser with underlying psychological issues but… interesting. I rather like him.**


	9. The Futility of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all of you, readers. I appreciate every comment, kudos, and reblog. This is the most stressful time of year for me. Simply putting this idea on paper and putting out into the world helps tremendously. So thank you for reading.
> 
> Canolacrush did a smash-up beta job, and Bettyswallocks, as usual, is my go-to girl for everything British.

Chapter 9: The Futility of Life 

Mrs. Hudson was fretting about the kitchen in the morning. She looked like she had gone to war with the contents of the pantry and lost: flour was smeared across her cheek, egg shells littered the workshop, and a box of oats had tipped over. Something on the stove was burning, and she looked like she was ready to cry.

“Woah,” said John, grabbing an oven glove from the worktop and rescuing the blackened remains of a pan of beans. “Slow down there.”

Mrs. Hudson waved her hands in front of her face a moment, then began to cry.

John steered her toward a chair at the table and took over, flinging a kitchen towel over his shoulder and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He flipped the eggs and poked at the sausages a bit before beginning to clean up the mess.

“Are you expecting an army?” he asked, trying to put things in order.

Mrs. Hudson gave a hiccuping sob. “He won’t eat a thing!” she confessed, then realized her error and sobbed again. 

“I know about Sherlock,” John said. “I met him.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face went from frustrated to alarmed. “Oh, John, no.”

“Look, he’s not a leper.”

“He gets in such moods!”

“Well, yeah. He’s an addict.”

Mrs. Hudson wiped her eyes. “You haven’t known him half as long as I have,” she said fiercely. “And ‘addict’ is such an ugly word. He’s usually, you know, not chasing the dragon, or whatever you say these days. But then he gets down, bored, you see, and goes off the deep end. We nearly lost him this time.”

John plated the eggs and turned off the heat. 

“He won’t eat that,” she said, waving her hand. “He hasn’t eaten anything. It ends up in the toilet or on the floor. Four of our good china plates -- smashed to pieces!”

“Why are you serving him on china?” John asked, trying to sound understanding and probably failing. 

Mrs. Hudson looked at him pointedly. “Can you see him eating from anything else?”

John thought of Sherlock on the floor of his bedroom, covered in sweat and grime. He honestly couldn’t picture the man doing anything posh, much less using formal place settings. From what he had briefly seen of the man, he was as slovenly as his brother was refined. “Maybe try some plain porridge,” he said. “Or a banana. His stomach is probably still really tetchy. Anything heavy should probably wait.”

Mrs. Hudson dried her eyes with a hanky she kept in the pocket of her apron and gathered herself together. “I never had children,” she said, “and Sherlock is very dear to me. But he can be rude and obnoxious and right now I’m so angry with him that I’m all blubbery. If he were my child, I’d give him a good talking to. And maybe a spanking.”

“Maybe you should. Look,” said John, poking at the sausages, “I’ve got an idea.” He spelled it out to Mrs. Hudson, who raised her eyebrow.

“Well, go right ahead,” she said, “but mind your head. He has excellent aim.”

***

How John managed one-handedly to carry the tray up to Sherlock’s room without spilling anything was a minor miracle. 

“It’s John,” he called as he balanced himself outside Sherlock’s room. 

“The door’s open,” he heard Sherlock mutter from inside.

“I’ve got my hands full. Come and open it.”

“Can’t. Busy.”

Cursing, John fumbled with his cane and the door handle and managed to get inside without dropping the tray --or himself--on the floor. 

“Some busy you are,” he said at seeing Sherlock spread out on top of his bed like a starfish, staring at the ceiling. 

“I’m contemplating the futility of existence.”

“Hm. Well, in that case, don’t let me interrupt you.”

John arranged himself and his breakfast at what must be Sherlock’s desk and began to eat. He kept his eyes on his food but could feel Sherlock’s gaze settle upon him. Good. John was done with his eggs and on his second sausage when Sherlock finally spoke again. 

“Mrs. Hudson sent you.”

“No,” said John. “I escaped.”

He heard Sherlock make a little laughing sound before risking a glance at him. “She’s so concerned about eating,” said Sherlock, as if eating were the most repugnant thing on the planet. “Eat this, eat that. Eat, eat, eat. Every day.”

“Don’t you get hungry?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Digestion is boring. Food slows down my mind.”

John wondered whether or not this madman knew anything about basic human physiology. “Suit yourself,” said John, and went back to eating. 

“Reverse psychology is not going to work, John,” grumbled Sherlock at the same time his stomach protested its lack of sustenance -- loudly. “Traitor,” he said to it, lifting his head off the pillow.

John couldn’t help but grin. He kept eating albeit very slowly. He’d take a bite, chew, swallow, look around a bit, fiddle with his phone. Time ticked on. He should have brought up the paper.

“Fine!” Sherlock yelled after a small eternity. “Fine. Toast. I’ll eat the toast.”

“With jam.”

“No jam.”

 

“Jam.”

John put apricot jam onto a piece of toast and brought it to Sherlock, who propped himself up with a few pillows and looked at it disdainfully before taking a tentative bite. It was gone in three, and when he looked up at John, John finally saw Sherlock’s eyes by the light of day: they were an unusual shape and color -- a striking blue-grey-green. And right now, those eyes were imploring. 

Smiling to himself, John put the rest of the toast on his plate and handed it to his patient, who wolfed it down. 

“Feeling any better?” asked John as he sipped his coffee. He walked over to Sherlock’s windows and tried to get a look down into the secret garden, but the room was in the wrong position. He could see nothing of the interior of the garden whatsoever. 

“I stopped vomiting.”

“Well, now there’s a start.”

“The craving is still awful.”

John nodded. He didn’t know, but had seen Harry go through some horrible episodes. “I’ve seen some pretty bad withdrawals. It can be ugly. Look,” said John, “I don’t have to work today. Why don’t you, I don’t know, come on out of here.”

“And do what? Go for a walk? Have a look at the horses? Roam around the library? Have scintillating conversation with the housekeeper? Dull. Dull, dull, dull.”

An odd feeling of disappointment bloomed in John’s gut. Sherlock flopped back onto the bed and resumed his impersonation of a starfish. 

“OK. Well, have fun contemplating the futility of existence,” he said as he gathered the breakfast tray and hobbled toward the door. 

“Wait,” said Sherlock, lifting his head a bit. “Patch?”

“Sorry, mate. Left them in my room.” John gave him an exaggerated frown. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes before lying back down to stare at the ceiling. “You’re a horrible doctor,” he said, but there was no venom in it. “And tell my brother I’m leaving tomorrow!”

John smiled as he brought the empty tray back to Mrs. Hudson, who couldn’t believe it all returned in one piece. 

“What did you say to him?” she marveled.

“Nothing.”

“Just as well he’s up there. Hmph! He makes me so angry sometimes.”

“Were you his nanny?”

“His…? Oh God no. I met Sherlock a little over a decade ago, in Florida. My husband, Frank, well, he was a bit of a drug dealer, I guess you’d say. That, and a few guns.”

John looked at her very carefully. Had she gone off the deep end?

“Your husband was a small arms dealer?”

“I had nothing to do with it! I mean, I helped manage our club. Trendy place in Miami. Anyway, there was this business with a high-profile murder case and it was all over the news. I had no idea Frank was involved, honest. He’d done a rather fine job covering everything up but it made the tabloids back home and one day I opened our door to a good-looking young man who gave me an earful. He’d come all the way from London, bless his heart. He was still a student then.”

“So did Sherlock clear him of the charges?”

“Oh heavens no! He helped convict him. Florida has the death penalty, you know.”

John scratched his chin. He didn’t know whether to be disturbed or impressed. 

“Anyway, I lost everything. I sold our place in Miami and came back to England. I stayed with my sister for a week before Sherlock rang me. He told me his mum and dad needed a housekeeper and I was the perfect fit. So here I am. It was hard, though, losing Archie so quickly after I started. And Lilly -- well, she suffered. They all did.”

“Is that why…” John nodded toward the door “...all the drugs?”

“That? No. That’s because he’s an idiot. All those brains and no common sense. He’s smart as a whip. A graduate chemist, you know. And he solves puzzles. Not the kind with a million pieces, mind you. Real puzzles, mysteries. Never could figure out his father’s death, though.”

“I thought you said he fell from a ladder?”

“Yes, he did. But Sherlock was never convinced that it was an accident.”

“Wasn’t there an investigation?”

“Not much to investigate, dear. Men run drug cartels; men fall from ladders. He hit his head on a bit of concrete and died instantly.”

“Surely Sherlock would understand that.”

“He doesn’t see things like most people do, John.”

That was obvious enough. “So what happened? He just went off the deep end?”

Mrs. Hudson looked sad. She busied herself in washing a teacup. “Off with you, then,” she said after a moment. “It’s a long and sad story, and not mine to tell.” 

John, having little else to do that day, took a walk around the grounds. The spring breeze was warm, and the leaves, having finally unfurled into their green glory, whispered their delight. Other than that, it was quiet. 

_Quiet,_ he thought. _I wanted peace and quiet._ Oddly enough, he now found himself wanting to share that quiet with someone. Lestrade was decent company, but the chemistry of a good mate just wasn’t there, not like he was friends with his old pal Damien back in university. They had been true friends, almost brothers. They hadn’t been lovers, but if John was honest with himself he’d be a fool to deny that he’d loved Damien dearly and perhaps not strictly in a platonic way. But Damien got married and moved to the States and John hadn’t heard from him again. And then there was Murray -- his friendship with Murray was...more complicated. His loss was still a void John wondered if he’d ever fill.

He’d had plenty of female friends, too, ones who had kept him company during the day and sometimes shared his bed at night, but no one, not even Mary, had completely unlocked his heart. He struggled with words to name his emotions long before he was deployed. He loved easily enough, but being loved? That was another story.

Maybe he should ask Sarah out; she’d shown a bit of interest, he thought. Maybe they’d go out to see a movie, or have dinner together. Keep it casual at first, move slowly. Sarah was safe. And pretty, and clever. 

He resolved to talk to her within the week. Sherlock was wrong. Life wasn’t futile. He’d had his peace and quiet: it was time again to make some noise.


	10. In the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the usual suspects! Here's your garden, BitterGreens!
> 
> Yes, this has been reposted. There was a small but significant error in chapter 9 that affected chapter 10, but I edited 9 and kept 10 as it is. If you read them already, you probably won't even notice, but it was a consistency thing that messed with the plot, kind of. Thanks for pointing it out, CC.
> 
> So much to learn about British botany and gardening. Thank you Pinterest. The only walled garden I've ever been to is at the Chicago Botanical Gardens. And the ones in my imagination. They don't require gloves or allergy meds.

Chapter 10: In the Garden

 

John returned to Holmes Hall a little after noon, stopped off at the kitchen to make himself a sandwich, and then thought he’d read for awhile in his room. That idea, however, died the moment he opened the door to his room and saw Mycroft Holmes sitting at the desk. 

John frowned. “Been here long?” he asked. Although he knew the room wasn’t “his”, per se, the thought of someone entering without permission rubbed him the wrong way.

“No.”

“What?” said John, lingering in the doorway. “No dramatic arrival? Did you teleport here? Didn’t want to warn me of your arrival?”

“I have a car.”

“So. When exactly were you going to tell me that your drug addict brother is holed up in the east wing? Because the picture is much clearer now. How fortunate you found me. A former soldier and a doctor. Just what your brother needs, eh?”

Mycroft shrugged. “What did he tell you? That I’d kidnapped him against his will and am holding him prisoner? He does love to be dramatic.”

“Yes. I see you’re above all that.”

“Good men are hard to find, Doctor Watson.”

“Why exactly am I here? What do you want from me? I am not a drugs counsellor or a glorified babysitter.”

Mycroft frowned. “Is that what he suggested?”

“If you’d wanted someone to look after your Sherlock, how about, oh, I don’t know, saying something along the lines of, ‘John, my brother will be joining you for a while to sort himself out after a recent overdose,’ or ‘Doctor Watson, how would you feel about taking on a private patient for a while?’” John stopped and clenched his fist. “Wait,” he said, as he began to put the pieces together. “You knew, didn’t you? That he was spiralling out of control? So, what? Instead of getting him the help he needed, you waited around until he nearly died and then carted him off to the country where he could detox with his own personal physician? That’s just not on.”

“You have met the man. Do you think he accepts help?”

John snorted. “He said he wants the key to his flat back and that he’s leaving tomorrow.”

“He’ll be doing no such thing.”

“You can’t force him to stay.”

“He has nowhere left to go. He doesn’t know it yet, but he was evicted from his flat a week ago. None of his relatives can stand him, he has no friends, and what little money he has left is in my control.” Mycroft’s expression softened a little. “Besides, he’d never admit it, but he doesn’t mind it here. It’s quiet. He likes quiet once and awhile. His head gets...noisy.” 

There was something something honest in his voice. It wasn’t enough to overpower John’s distrust of the man, but it did humanise him. John took off his coat and hung it on the peg but didn’t sit. The sooner Mycroft left, the better. “You want me to treat him, then? As a patient?”

“No. I want you to keep an eye on him. I will compensate you for your efforts, if required.”

“You want me to _spy_ on him and report back to you? For money?”

Mycroft shrugged noncommittally in a way that suggested, _so, what of it?_. “You’ve already bribed him with nicotine patches, I hear.”

“That wasn’t bribery! It was a small kindness. Withdrawal can be uncomfortable at best, absolutely miserable at the worst. He didn’t have an easy go of it, I can tell you that much.”

“You also got him to shower. And eat.”

“None of that was my doing. I’m not going to keep tabs on him for you. I understand he’s not the most congenial person on the planet, but if you’re that worried about your brother’s well being, how about you, I don’t know, _talk_ to him. I’m not spying on him.”

Mycroft was quiet. Apparently John had hit a nerve. “I think he and I have rather moved beyond talking,” he said softly before standing and pulling down his waistcoat. “I must say, John, that you are very loyal, very quickly. Please do keep an eye out for him. I worry about him. Constantly.”

John had nothing else to say, so he kept his mouth shut as Mycroft let himself out. He no longer felt like reading, so instead he changed into his old jeans and a lightweight jumper, thinking he would finish weeding the flowerbed he and Lestrade had worked on the other day. He was nearly out the door when he remembered the key to the locked garden. He retrieved it from his nightstand and tucked in the front pocket of his jeans. Mycroft wasn’t the only one who could keep secrets.

***

Lestrade hadn’t been kidding about the ivy. John had been grappling with the stuff for three quarters of an hour. After making sure Lestrade was occupied elsewhere, he went in search of the door to the garden. He thought about just going back to the Holmes’ room and surveying the garden walls from there, but thought better of it. He’d have to go past Sherlock, who would probably catch him at it and then he would be stuck explaining what he was doing. He could probably just ask the man, but they’d just met, after all, and, although he was interesting, John wasn’t sure that he really wanted to get closer to yet someone else with addiction and psychological problems. His sister was plenty, thank you very much. 

So after determining that the door to the garden must be located somewhere on the wall that separated the main walled garden from the extension, he went into battle with the ivy as clandestinely as he could. Avoiding the climbing roses (they really did smell like heaven), he wiggled his fingers between vines, hoping to meet wood or metal instead of brick. He started methodically on the side of the wall farthest from the house and worked inward. There were only so many places for one door to go, after all. Eventually --four encounters with thorns and one with a bee later-- his fingers met something smooth and cold. After checking to see that he was truly alone, John parted the ivy as best he could to get a closer look. Yes! An iron hinge. 

Satisfied, John sat back on the grass and shed his jumper as he’d worked up quite the sweat in his dance with the foliage. He couldn’t just cut the ivy down: Lestrade would notice. A pocketknife would make quick work of little tendrils that attached the ivy to the wall, though. If he cut the right ones, maybe he could make a curtain of it and hope the door opened inward. Renewed, his belly fluttering a bit with anticipation, John began to work, and soon he was able to slip past the green vines. The wooden door was painted green. No wonder it had been difficult to spot: it was perfectly camouflaged. John dug in his pocket for the keys, and with a sense of satisfaction, opened the padlock and then fitted the old skeleton key into its lock and prayed that it would turn. After some initial resistance, it did. With a smirk that would rival Mycroft’s, John slipped past the door and into a different world.

***

‘Still’ is a funny word, John thought. It was a word connected to ‘calm’ for John, related to ‘peace’ and close kin to ‘quiet’. ‘Still’ was the feeling he had long ago when he was young and still a believer, sitting small and unmoving under the eaves of his parents’ church. ‘Still’ was the desert in Afghanistan during the summer, when the horizon shimmered with heat and his platoon sat idle, waiting for the next skirmish. ‘Still’ was a quiet bath after a long, stressful day. ‘Still’ was the only word that he could think of to describe the feeling he had the moment he closed the door behind him.

He could tell immediately that someone once used this space. There were stone benches for sitting, and a child’s swing dangled from a tree branch. Various garden implements were still strewn about: a rake, a rusted watering can, a spade with a broken handle. 

A gravel path wound through the garden, and John walked quietly, almost reverently, through, taking in the overgrown lilac bushes, a tangle of blossomless rose bushes, a bed where a stray allium or two exploded its purple firework above years of organic detritus. The entire garden was overrun with weeds, long grasses that had taken root in the gravel, and small trees from wayward seeds that grew imperiously in what were once manicured beds. While occasionally a sad clump of pink or yellow flowers peered out from between the weeds, the garden was a riot of green and brown, a wild and untamed place being slowly consumed by time itself. 

Completely enclosed within thick brick walls, John felt a thrill of excitement, as if he had discovered something special, something distinctively unique. He glanced up at the second story window, at the room that was once Lilly and Archibald Holmes’. Was he trespassing? It didn’t feel like it. For some reason, he felt an immediate and intense ownership of the place, as if a sense of goodness, of all that was right, was saying, _Yes, this can be yours. I have waited so long._

He stopped at an old birdbath, the basin of which held rainwater and old leaves. He picked a few of the leaves out, and then, possessed by a sudden urge to make things _right,_ dumped the contents and used a stick to clean out some of the muck that had accumulated at the bottom. The watering can, while rusty, was amazingly still intact, and he used the collected rainwater to give the basin a cursory wash before righting it again. 

Satisfied with himself, he wiped his hands on his jeans and went to sit on the bench. As if on cue, a robin flew down and landed on the birdbath, cocking its head this way and that, as if to say, _you forgot something, idiot_. John smiled to himself. The robin’s imaginary voice sounded an awful lot like Sherlock. 

John gave the grass under his feet a few kicks -- it would take ages to pull it all out of the gravel. It was an enterprising project, one that he likely couldn’t complete by himself in just a few hours a week. But the space felt special, magical, even, if he allowed himself the romantic notion. He’d need some supplies; he’d have to buy his own set of pruning shears and gloves and find a way to keep them in the garden itself so he wouldn’t raise anyone’s suspicions. 

He stayed the better part of an hour, getting a sense of the place and making a mental map of the flower beds. He also took a few pictures of a few plants he didn’t recognise: tall, spiky things with bell-shaped flowers and a low-growing fragrant groundcover. 

On his way out, he stopped and knelt down in front of several overgrown rose bushes. They were, as far as he could tell, the same ones that Lestrade had been complaining about earlier. Sherlock’s roses. They were in rough shape; dead, woody branches choked newer, greener canes. Much of the deadwood, he thought, would have to be pruned away. He touched the glossy leaves, ran a fingertip very carefully over a wicked-looking thorn. “What do you need, hmm?” he asked aloud. 

The robin fluttered into the lilac tree next to the roses and eyed John suspiciously. “Got it all figured out then?” he asked the bird, who did nothing but cock its head sideways again before flying up and out of the garden.

With a sigh, John hauled himself up, dusted his knees, and left the garden, carefully shutting and locking the door behind him and sneaking out from the curtain of ivy. 

He was midway through the main walled garden when the robin flew by again, nearly in front of him. And he’d be damned if the bird didn’t land on the window ledge of Sherlock’s room. It hopped, looking down at him, as John stared up. “What do _you_ need?” it seemed to say. 

*** 

Lestrade joined them for supper that night, and remarkably, John noticed, Mycroft could actually carry on a decent conversation that wasn’t somehow condescending or mysterious. No one volunteered to take a plate to Sherlock. John figured that, like a toddler, Sherlock would come out and eat when he was actually hungry. 

Later that night, John looked up Sherlock’s website on the internet. Sherlock really was a consulting detective after all. He’d written numerous treatises on a wide variety of forensic sciences. He’d done some extensive research into tobacco ash, apparently. There was also a significant index of soil analysis and a guide to recognizing over 300 types of women’s perfume. It was impressive. Sherlock wrote up each of his “cases”, as he called them, in a side blog. John read them all, and found himself smiling at his hifalutin diction and pretentious tone. He’d often dismiss the few people who dared make comments on his posts outright, calling them “common idiots”. Yet something about the entire website struck John as not really a red flag, but a banner of sorts. A call, a summons: please, pay attention to me! He noted the counter on the blog: only 257 hits. Curious.

Moreover, the blog confirmed what he’d already learned about Sherlock Holmes: that he was brilliant, rude, clever, a bit imperious, and thrived on constant stimulation of his mind. 

What was stimulating his mind right now? Likely nothing. And that, John thought, was what got him into trouble in the first place. 

***

 

In the morning before work, John ventured up to the east wing. He’d grown tired of slipping behind the tarp, and with one swift yank, pulled half of it down. The rest came away with a few more tugs and John wiped his hands on his trousers in satisfaction as he walked over it.

He rapped lightly on Sherlock’s door, noticing that the tapestry that had once covered it had been removed. He heard Sherlock mumble something from inside that didn’t sound like a dismissal, so he let himself in. 

Sherlock was lying in his bed, still in his “life is futile” pose. He was wearing the same clothes as he was the day before.

“You’re not here to make me eat, are you?” he said without opening his eyes.

“No. Just heading to work. Was wondering if I could pick something up for you.”

Sherlock harumphed. “Not necessary. I’ll be leaving today,” he said.

“I looked you up on the internet last night,” John said instead, coming closer to the bed and pulling up a chair. “The Science of Deduction.”

That got his attention. Sherlock opened his eyes. A faint gleam of interest shone there. “And…?”

“Bit dry. The tobacco ash part, at least.”

Sherlock sighed.

“But the blog was entertaining.”

“It’s not meant to be _entertaining_. It’s meant to generate clients.”

“Still.”

“All of these people, going about their daily lives. And they see everything but observe nothing. Nothing! Why do they even have eyes? Ugh!”

John chuckled in spite of himself. “Get any jobs so far?”

“Yes, but nothing incredibly interesting. I haven’t been able to check it, either. Mycroft took my mobile.” He frowned petulantly.

John dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Here. Use mine. Don’t know if will work, though. The Wi-fi only works properly near your brother’s office.”

Sherlock took the phone and tinkered with it a few moments before sighing dramatically. “Nothing.”

“Do you do anything else besides amateur sleuthing?”

“Amateur!” Sherlock scoffed. “The police don’t consult with amateurs.”

“You consult with the police. You? Consult with the police?”

Sherlock sat up then and narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think I can? I deduced you the night I met you. In the dark and in the throes of an incredibly nasty withdrawal, I might add.”

“Could have got lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it.” He flung his legs over the side of the bed and handed the mobile back to John. “How’s your brother faring?”

“My brother?”

“You’ve got one. 

“How do you work that out?”

“Your phone. You’re a soldier recently invalided home. This model of this particular phone is a year old now. It’s been used without a protective cover...see these scratches? You haven’t had it long enough to put them there. So it’s been kept in a handbag with keys and coins. That, and the general lack of care the device has had indicate that whoever purchased it didn’t find the device as sentimental as it was supposed to have been, as it was obviously a gift. The engraving on the back, _To Harry, From Clara XXX_ suggests it was a present from a significant other, but the relationship went sour and Harry no longer cared whether the device was damaged. He feels protective of you, hence an older brother, and he wants to stay in touch with you, which is why he gave you the phone. Your brother also has a burgeoning alcohol problem, or did when he was going through the breakup. See the power connection? The tiny scuff marks?” 

John looked. Indeed, there were marks.

“These power cords are tricky to insert. The scuff marks indicate that whoever owned the phone routinely struggled to connect it. I’d expect to see these marks on an older person’s device, or on someone who has a neurological disorder that causes tremors, like Parkinson’s, for example. I’m assuming that your brother is no more than six years older than you are based on birth rates from the 1970s, if I am estimating your age correctly -- you’re prematurely greying, am I correct? So, if your brother is between forty and forty-five, I’m going to assume that he is of good health and that the shaking is caused by a more common affliction: drunkenness.You must not get on well or you’d be living with him while you reorient yourself back into civilian life. A quick glance at your history shows you don’t know how to use half of the apps on the phone, indicating you haven’t been home long enough to figure out how they work, or you’re a bit of a Luddite who couldn’t care less about the weather forecast or how well your shares are doing. There are no games; you don’t waste your time. And you’ve only made twenty or so calls since you acquired it. Half of those were from your brother, and half of those you didn’t answer: my guess is that you didn’t miss the calls, but rather you ignored them. Ergo, you don’t get on.”

John blinked. “Wow. That’s fantastic.”

Sherlock looked smug. “As I said. The police don’t consult with amateurs.”

John took the phone and put it back in his pocket. “You were wrong about one thing, though.” 

Sherlock cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. John thought of the robin. “I don’t have a brother,” he said, feeling rather smug himself. “Harry is short for Harriet. Harry is my _sister_.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before he smiled. “Damn,” he said, then laughed, a genuine laugh that lit up his face. “There’s always something.” He shook his head as if he should have known better. “When does your shift end?”

“I’m usually back by 4pm.”

“Well, John Watson, if I am gone by then, it was nice to have met you. You are surprisingly decent company.”

“Ta,” said John, then extended his hand. Sherlock took it. The moment stretched on longer than necessary. John cleared his throat and extracted his hand. It was just a handshake, but something about it seemed oddly intimate to him. Maybe it was the way Sherlock looked at him, those odd-coloured eyes seeing what no one else did. He’d only known the man three days, but felt some odd connection with him. It was a silly and romantic notion, but it was definitely there, strong enough to be acknowledged. John nodded at Sherlock, who nodded back, before reluctantly seeing himself out. 

John left Holmes Hall feeling oddly empty. He was distracted again at work, remembering bits of things he’d read in Sherlock’s blog: the slight differences between the ash from Embassy no. 6 (king size), Marlboro light (which had a finer particulate), or the use of ambergris in Miss Dior, Charlie, and Chanel no. 5. He wondered if he’d ever see him again. 

He was nearing the end of his shift when his mobile rang. Between patients, he checked his voicemail. It was Mrs. Hudson. “Oh John,” she said in a trembling voice, “Come home as soon as you can. They’ve had a horrible row. Sherlock’s locked himself in his room and refuses to speak to anyone. Anyone, that is, except you.”


	11. A budding friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the start of a beautiful friendship...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of depression in this chapter.

Chapter 11: A budding friendship

John cycled up to Holmes Hall to see two men emptying a removal van. Plastic crates, boxes and a few packing cases had accumulated on the front steps, and from the looks of it, there were plenty more to come. The front doors stood open, and Mrs. Hudson, looking frail and flustered, was just inside.

“What’s all this, then?” asked John.

“Sherlock’s things. Mycroft’s had them all delivered.”

“I take it he’s been told that there’s no flat to go back to?”

“Good heavens. They were yelling for hours. Mycroft left an hour ago, and Sherlock’s in his room.”

One of the movers added another box --one marked _FRAGILE_ \-- to the growing stack while another opened the door to the driver’s cab to retrieve something. “Thought you ought to take this,” he said, passing a violin case to John. “Didn’t want to risk it in the back.” John took it and stared down at the sleek black leather, trying and failing to imagine Sherlock as a musician. 

“He’s so talented,” Mrs Hudson said wistfully. “A natural.”

There was something pathetic about seeing a man’s life bundled up into containers. John found himself close to tears, suddenly and painfully reminded of the soldiers he’d served with in Afghanistan and the pathetic parcels of books, clothes and personal belongings they’d left behind. _For God’s sake, Watson, pull yourself together_ , he chastised himself, before blurting out rather more loudly than was strictly appropriate, “He really has nowhere else to go? Nobody else to stay with?”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, oblivious to John’s sombre mood. “Sherlock isn’t really what you’d call a people person,” she said. “It’s not that he hates everyone. He may say he does, but that’s simply untrue. He just has...very specific tastes.” 

“Mycroft said he has no friends.”

“I suppose he doesn’t. Rather sad, that. Everyone should have a friend.” She crossed her arms, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “Even him.”

The removal men brought out something that looked like a treasure chest. It took both of them to carry it. 

“What’s in there?” John wondered aloud.

“His books, probably. And his chemistry equipment. That boy and his experiments. Electrocuted a squirrel once.”

John licked his lips. “I’ll give this to him,” he said, nodding at the violin. 

Mrs. Hudson checked her watch. “And tell him he’d better come out of there and open up that room unless he wants to carry all of this up himself. They’re leaving in an hour.” 

John eyed the growing mountain of boxes. He sure as hell wasn’t taking them anywhere. 

Violin in hand, John made his way to the east wing. Yes, Sherlock’s behaviour was childish and completely inappropriate. But for some reason, John couldn’t seem to fault him for it. He rapped on Sherlock’s door. “It’s me, John. Mrs. Hudson said you wanted to talk to me?”

Sherlock flung open the door. He looked manic, eyes wide and hair in disarray. 

“Hi,” said John, not really knowing what else to say. Sherlock jerked his head, indicating John should come in, then slammed the door rather spectacularly behind him. “So, um. I assume you’re staying?”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide and furious.

John didn’t see any point in lying. “Yeah.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“You should have. Awfully easy job for you. Poke your head in once a day to see me withering away to nothing in here. Day after day in an endless cycle of _nothingness!_ ” He yelled this last word, enough that John cringed a bit as the sound echoed off the tall ceilings. 

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s _exactly_ why you’re here. Another addition to my brother’s collection of broken toys: a brilliant brother who can’t stay off the drugs. A housekeeper who helped operate an American drug cartel. A washed-up cop with an anger problem. And now, a doctor with a limp and a tremor in his dominant hand. Brilliant.”

“Right.” John clenched his hand. “I can see why you have so many friends.”

“I don’t need friends.”

“Guess not. Well, I came because Mrs. Hudson said you asked for me. But if I’m going to be your verbal punchbag, I’ll leave this and go. Just thought I’d let you know that your things have arrived. But if you’d rather your chemistry equipment and books remain outside, go ahead and stay in here and sulk.” 

Sherlock looked at his violin, his expression softening. His eyes raked over John’s face before a little wrinkle appeared between his brows. “You don’t actually hate me,” he declared.

John huffed a dry laugh. “No. I don’t. In fact I rather like you, although I’ll be damned if I know why.”

Sherlock stood there, brow furrowed. His mouth opened and shut several times, as if he were trying to figure out the proper protocol for further communication. John took pity on him. 

“Look, Sherlock. Come on out of here. Let the removal men bring your things up.”

Eventually, Sherlock nodded.

“I’m just back from the clinic. If you’d like, I’ll help you unpack later.” 

Sherlock nodded again, and John found himself smiling on the way back to his room. He showered and changed his clothes before heading to the kitchen to make something to eat, adding an extra sandwich and an apple. By the time he got back to the east wing, Sherlock’s unpacking was well underway. The door was open, so John let himself in. Books were everywhere. 

“Knock knock,” he said, stepping over a cardboard box. “Hungry?”

Sherlock’s head appeared above a stack of grey plastic packing tubs. “Hmm? No. Maybe. Just leave it.”

John placed the plate on what was now the only clear surface of the room -- the bedside table. “Was this your childhood room?” he asked, rolling up his shirtsleeves. It didn’t look as if it had been redecorated. The room lacked the formality of the others he’d seen. No sleek paintings hung from the walls, and the furniture was plain and functional, from the desk to the chairs. The bedframe was ornately carved but made up with a plain grey duvet. He tried to imagine the space as a child’s room, complete with plastic trucks, cars, Lego, model dinosaurs and board games. What kind of toys would Sherlock have played with? Or did he favour the outdoors as a child? Did he play sports or hide-and-seek in the garden? John doubted it.

“Yes. Well, in the summer it was. We also had a house in Cambridge and a flat in London.”

John whistled. He couldn’t help himself. 

Sherlock frowned and gathered an armful of textbooks. “It wasn’t like that. My parents, for all the money, were exceedingly _normal_ people.” He said it as if it were the great embarrassment of his life. “

Normal people producing children like Mycroft and Sherlock? _Fat chance,_ thought John. He skimmed his hand over one of the crates. “Are all of these textbooks?”

“Not all. Go ahead and put them on the shelves. I’ll arrange them later.”

John helped Sherlock stack a bookshelf on the far side of the room. He really did have quite the collection: several medical texts, 20 or so chemistry books, a great many volumes of crime-related journals. Some of the titles were very old, their covers threadbare and pages brittle. Others were festooned with sticky notes, passages of text underlined, splashed with lime-green highlighter ink, or simply slashed through with angry lines and marked ‘wrong!’. John left the boxes of chemistry equipment and personal effects for Sherlock to sort out. Slowly but surely, the room transformed into a livable and comfortable space. 

Sherlock hung a framed picture of the periodic table on the wall along with a specimen case containing several beetles and a bat. He didn’t say much as he worked, but occasionally hummed to himself, and John found the silence comfortable and somehow familiar. 

Suddenly Sherlock said, “A-ha!” in a triumphant voice and pulled what appeared to be a human skull out of a box. 

“Friend of yours?” queried John.

“Yes. Well, I say friend. Helps me think, sometimes. Having someone to talk to. I like company when I go out.”

“Company that doesn’t answer back?”

“Exactly.” 

John dusted his hands on his jeans and sat in the chair by the window. It was getting dark. “You know,” he said, realising that it might be forward of him, “I don’t think for a moment that you’re really a sociopath. I do, however, think you’re depressed. An antidepressant might do wonders for you.”

Sherlock deposited the skull on a shelf and turned until he deemed it just right. “Black moods,” he replied. “Of course I’m depressed. Textbook, really. And no. Absolutely no antidepressants. Slows down my mind.”

“There is no literature that shows a correlation between cognitive function and SSRIs. Lethargy, perhaps, but we could tinker with dosages and…”

“No. I can control it.”

John raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He’d heard _that_ before. Hell, he’d _said_ it before.

“And I am a sociopath,” Sherlock continued. “I have an official diagnosis.”

John snorted. “Yeah? And what quack gave you that?”

“Two separate psychiatrists in London with expertise in behavioral medicine, actually.”

“I don’t buy it. I think you _wanted_ to be diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder. And you pulled it off. Showed them exactly what they wanted to see.” 

Sherlock attempted a retort but must have thought better of it. “You can decide for yourself,” he said at length. “I’ll be staying for a while. My darling brother has cut off my cash and paid off any of my...associates...who could have helped me in my time of great need.” 

“You don’t have to stay here,” said John, getting up. It was getting late. “You’re not a prisoner. He can’t do that.” 

“Might as well. It will give me something to hold over his head next time he requires a favour.”

“I’ll see you around?” He’d meant it as a statement, but it came out as a question.

Sherlock was upending a box full of chemistry paraphernalia. He picked up a pair of safety goggles with one hand and a lighter in the other. “Yes, yes, fine” he said, not looking up. He manipulated the lighter a few times to ensure that it still worked before delving back in for more.

John knew when he’d been dismissed. He’d nearly reached the door when Sherlock spoke again. 

“John?”

He turned. Sherlock had put the goggles on and pushed them up. His hair stood out comically around them. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

John smiled and closed the door behind him.


	12. A Confidante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends some quality time with Sherlock. A gardening accident cements John and Molly's friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGain, thanks to all the lovely readers who leave me the most awesome comments. YOu guys are awesome. My work schedule clears after next week. Chapter 13 is in the process of being written, but it's long and complex so it may be up to 2 weeks before I can get that one out. I like to be 2-4 chapters ahead, and right now I'm only 1, so I'll have to play some catch up! Thanks again for all the lovely encouragement and notes.

Chapter 12: A confidante

For the next few days, Sherlock stayed holed up in his room working on some elaborate experiment involving dust mites in both feather and synthetic pillows. When John queried just exactly how the information would be useful, Sherlock, completely absorbed, simply muttered “asphyxiation” and continued on his with his work. 

With nothing better to do, John decided he would work on his new project: the locked garden. He gathered a few tools from Lestrade’s garage and sneaked in behind his curtain of ivy. 

Starting at one corner and working his way around seemed like the best idea, so he chose a sunny spot close to garden door, spread out the tarp, tried to find a position that wouldn’t trouble his leg, and started weeding, every once and while consulting the pocket guide to gardening he’d brought with him to make sure he wasn’t digging up anything important. Simple grass seemed to be the most obnoxious and pervasive interloper, and he had to hack at it with a weeding fork until the clumps loosened and he could pull them out by the roots, a task that was nearly impossible in Lestrade’s borrowed gloves. They were too big, so eventually John pulled them off and found his bare fingers much more adept at the task. Three hours of solid labour later, his shoulder aching, the spot he was working on still looked fairly unkempt, but the different plants were finally discernible and a mound of pulled-up weeds lay wilting sadly on the tarpaulin. He was momentarily bothered as to what he was going to do with them. Lestrade would surely notice if his compost heap was suddenly filling up, so John decided the far corner would have to do for a makeshift compost pile for now, and he dragged the tarp across the gravel path to dump it. 

As he wiped sweat from his brow, he looked around the garden and realised that restoring it to its former glory would be beyond his ability. But the one corner, he thought, that could be his, and he could tidy it up and maybe get some flowers to bloom. He hated being idle. Military life had always afforded him some type of action; even when there weren’t waves of battle casualties, both soldiers and civilians needing his expertise, there was always something to do. He felt needed, something he never felt growing up, always forgotten, pushed aside in favour of Harry’s drama, his mother’s depression, and his father’s inability to hold down a job very long. As a doctor, it was his job to put things to right, to heal, stitch back together that which was broken and torn. In some strange way, the garden seemed like a patient, like someone whose muscles had atrophied and had to begin the laborious process of learning to move his limbs again. 

And maybe, if he’d admit it to himself, the garden was analogous to himself, to all that he had blocked off and tucked away, walled up over the years. Like his heart, after Mary. Mary, who had been unable to wait, who had found someone so quickly after John began his first tour of duty. He’d been cast aside for someone ‘safe’, who wasn’t going to galavant all over the world (no, just Afghanistan) in some deluded attempt at patriotism. It had been so hard to leave her, too. Mary, with her bright blue eyes, infectious laugh, and clever mind. Who loved pub night and crap telly and sex. They’d talked about children, once. John shook his head. Children. With Mary. The woman whom he’d loved so dearly. Jesus. It was for the better, he supposed. If he were being honest with himself, he knew that living with a wife and two kids in the suburbs, living a mundane and routine life, would have left him bored and yearning for something more.

The breakup hurt, but as all hurts generally ease with time, John got on with his life and added another continent on which he had enjoyed the company of women. He still loved easily, enjoyed flirting, loved having a good time. He wasn’t as much of a Don Juan as some of his squad made him out to be, although he could boast, if he wanted to, about his unusual ability to attract a lover. He didn’t particularly like one night stands, although he had his share of them. No one ever entered relationships while deployed under the pretence that it was actually going to end in marriage, kids, and a house in the suburbs. Hell, you didn’t even know if you were going to live another week, for that matter. Murray knew what that felt like. He knew that sometimes things happened in the heat of the moment, things you didn’t talk about, things John didn’t even want to think about. 

It might be nice, though, John thought as he rested on the mossy stone bench near where he’d dumped the weeds, to move past that, the frantic gropings or semi-frequent dates that were pleasant but not exhilarating. Not marriage, no. But something real, something deep. Maybe that’s where his next battle was, where he’d be called upon to be brave and bold: negotiating his own heart.

There was something simmering on the horizon, too, he could feel it. He’d always been intuitive. Something in the air pressure, maybe, in his ability to read people. There was something about this place, though, that filled him with a sense of purpose, lit up his nervous system. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it was. 

The robin came and pecked at the earth that John had turned up, obviously having found something juicy, which it snapped up before landing on the birdbath again. _Fearless little bugger_ thought John. 

John stowed his tools under the stone bench and draped the tarp over it to keep out the rain before surveying his handiwork a final time. He’d done well, he thought. A clump of larkspur and a patch of foxgloves, still only six inches or so high yet, now had room to grow. Tomorrow he’d go after the roses with the pruning shears. It was rather late in the season for it, he knew, but maybe if he cut the dead growth, the stems that had managed to sprout leaves could actually blossom. 

The robin took off with a loud chirp, and John quietly slipped out of the garden.

***

The rest of April seemed to fly by. John worked two extra days at the clinic one week while Sarah was laid up with a sprained wrist. He still hadn’t asked her out, wondering whether or not it was a good idea to mix business with pleasure. She was enjoyable company and they frequently ate lunch together. John thought he recognized a spark of interest there. His libido hadn’t returned, though, a fact he still lamented. He missed orgasms. He couldn’t imagine trying to explain that to Ella.

In his spare time, John worked in the garden he now considered his, pulling up weeds, wrangling with vines, and cutting dead wood. All of Sherlock’s roses got a good trim. They now looked scraggly, like newly-shorn sheep, and John was afraid that he’d killed them outright until new growth began a week or so later, tiny pink leaflets forming on the remaining stems. 

As for Sherlock himself, John saw him fairly frequently. As it turned out, Sherlock rather liked a listening ear, and John was obliged to listen to him go off on long tangents about dust particulate or blood spatter patterns. They sat for long hours sometimes in the evenings, in either of their rooms or in the library, Sherlock nattering on about something he was working on while John half-read a book. Whatever Sherlock was working on...something about blood coagulation...would keep him busy for awhile, but not indefinitely, John knew. One person posted a missing person case up on the Science of Deduction blog, but Sherlock quickly deduced, over the phone no less, that the missing wife had simply run off with a lover. He listed the places where she was most likely to be located and told the man to call again if she didn’t turn up, although she certainly would. 

“Didn’t you want to at least go out and interview him?” John asked afterward, still in awe of how Sherlock connected data together to form an incredibly accurate picture of a probable scenario. “Just to confirm his story? Maybe she’s actually in trouble.”

Sherlock shook his head and flopped dramatically into his chair, tucking his feet underneath him. “She’s fine. It’s harder to track when a person is motivated by greed. Greed is stealthy. People who are truly greedy buy their time, make plans. Cover their tracks. Love, however, is a more vicious motivator. Love causes people to overlook the obvious, to make mistakes. Love affairs are all passion and stupidity.” 

John chuckled to himself. “Speaking from experience?” he asked. Sherlock seemed to have no compunctions about breaking social codes about personal boundaries, and John felt no reticence in asking him more personal questions. He figured it was tit for tat: Sherlock didn’t _have_ to be told anything about his past when it was apparently simply on display, so it was only fair that John be given a few glimpses into what made Sherlock Holmes tick.

“I’ve had relationships,” Sherlock offered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Tedious. I prefer to be unattached.”

“Suit yourself,” said John, shrugging. “Unattached. Just like me.” He didn’t mean anything by it, just stating a fact, but realised that his words may have been misconstrued when Sherlock’s expression shifted. He looked a particular way when he was deducing, John realized. Tiny muscles twitched in his face before finally settling on a combination of both surprise and confusion. 

“John,” he said, “I’m rather flattered, but I’m not really...that is...I…I’m not looking for...” His voice trailed off as he pressed his lips together. 

It was the first time he’d seen Sherlock lost for words, and if he weren’t blushing so horribly, John would have found the situation terribly amusing. “That’s not what I was implying,” he managed. 

“Oh,” said Sherlock, still looking puzzled. _He’s deducing my sexuality,_ thought John for a horrified moment. He didn’t know why he was feeling so awkward. It’s not that he had anything to hide. There was no way Sherlock could know about the quasi-romantic feelings John had harboured for Damien, or that time with Murray, right after a particularly nasty skirmish with a rogue group of insurgents. It was a stress reaction, brought on by a brush with death. He’d loved Murray as a brother; their sexual liaison was a one-off born out of a desperate need to rejoice in the simplicity of living. He’d told no one, and now that Murray was gone, no one on the planet knew except for him, and not even the great brain of Sherlock Holmes could see that far into his psyche. He hoped.

“Sherlock, it’s fine.”

Sherlock worked his mouth some more before he must have decided it actually was fine, for he continued with his original explanation of the missing woman. “The woman’s perfectly safe and sound,” he reassured. “But if you’d like to hear something interesting, let me tell you about the time I dealt with an internet vigilante. It all started with this idiot who posted a video of himself torturing a cat on Youtube…”

Sherlock’s narrative, peppered with unnecessary facts and figures, explained how he had to go ‘undercover’ and post a few videos of his own, along with learning some rudimentary hacking techniques, to figure out who had started a massive online attack against a university student and keen rugby player who posted a video on his Twitter in which he repeatedly slammed a fluffy grey cat against a wall. The vigilante sent the video to every major animal rights activist group he or she could find, and the student was bombarded with hate mail and even had the door to his flat smeared with cat excrement. None of that troubled Sherlock in the least. What finally piqued his interest was that the rugby lad eventually landed himself in the hospital with a mysterious illness after the vigilante posted a tweet that read, “Brandon will finally respect pussy.” 

“What happened?”

“He was intentionally infected with the bacteria that causes benign inoculation lymphoreticulosis, commonly known as cat scratch fever.” 

“Wow.”

“It’s usually not a big deal,” explained Sherlock. “But Brandon, the cat abuser, also suffered an extremely rare and serious cardiac sequelae from the bacteria and died.”

“Jesus.”

“Vigilantism is incredibly intriguing,” mused Sherlock. “I find it curious, what people find offensive, the lengths some people will go to right perceived wrongs.”

John thought. “Some wrongs should be righted.”

“I’m interested in the motive and crime; the punishment I could not care less about.”

“You’re not at all concerned with, I don’t know, catching the ‘bad guys’?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Morality isn’t really my area. But it’s yours, isn’t it? Helping people? Invading Afghanistan?”

“Someone has to care.”

“Very well. You may do the caring for me. Be my moral compass, if you will.”

“You’re not really a sociopath.”

Sherlock ignored John’s last comment and finally sat back in his chair. He had a penchant for pacing and waving his arms while told stories; now he was still. He stared at the fire (unnecessary for the time of year, but enjoyable nonetheless). “I rescued the cat,” he said at last. “It’s the only pussy Mycroft’s ever stroked.”

He delivered the line so deadpan that John choked on his own saliva before laughing. “Did you just make a sex joke?” he stammered.

Sherlock smiled smugly. “Public school is an excellent place for building a repertoire of low-brow humour. And I enjoy insulting my brother at any opportunity.”

“Did you really save the cat?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a nutter, you know that? And your brother can’t possibly be that bad,” said John, still laughing.

The smile faded from Sherlock’s face, all traces of levity gone. “We were close once,” he started, but then must have decided that was all he had to say about the subject. John got the feeling the conversation had come to a close, but he wasn’t really ready to leave. He enjoyed spending time with Sherlock, even if it was just sitting in front of a fire. Sherlock was magnetic and enigmatic and interesting. John liked him immensely, even if he was self-absorbed and brusque. 

“You know,” said John, an idea forming in his mind as he got up to go back to his room for the night, “you really do have interesting stories. Maybe I...I have a blog, you see. I’m supposed to write as a form of therapy. I’ve found I don’t really have much to say. I don’t consider myself much of a writer. Nothing much happens to me. But, if you don’t mind, I could write up one of your cases. And then you could post it? Maybe generate a client or two.”

Sherlock considered it, drawing his feet up under him. “Fine,” he said, then turned his attention to the fire.

“I can show you first before I post.”

“Not necessary,” Sherlock said, waving his hand in John’s direction. “Just stick to the facts.” 

“OK. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

John had his hand on the doorknob when Sherlock spoke again. “I really could use someone with medical expertise,” he said. “And the skull sometimes draws unwanted attention. Next time there’s a case, would you like to join me?”

John found his heart beating faster at the very suggestion. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Sherlock nodded, steepled his fingers under his nose, and lost himself to his thoughts.

 

***

The first of May brought unusually warm weather, and John was eager to get back into his secret garden to see how things were progressing. The peonies had bloomed and were now starting to droop from the weight of their ponderous blossoms. John read that they needed to be tied up or staked, so he snagged some twine from Lestrade’s garage and, painstakingly, constructed supports for each plant, tying the long stalks to sticks. The hollyhocks would need something taller, he realized: stakes of some kind. He’d have to find a way to get them into the garden without looking too suspicious. The business of cutting twine and tying up stalks was repetitive but somewhat soothing, and he was nearly finished when his hand slipped and the sharp blade of his pocket knife sliced into his index finger. “Fuck,” he swore loudly, dropping the knife to inspect the wound, which was bleeding all over the place. It was a deep, two inch gash that would certainly require stitches. Damn. 

Thankful for his handkerchief, John wrapped his throbbing finger the best he could and hoped Lestrade wasn’t in the main walled garden. He’d made it out of the garden and was walking along the wall, heading back to his room and half-concocting a story to tell in case he was questioned and wondering how on earth he was going to stitch himself up when he turned the corner and bodily collided with Molly.

“Ooh! Sorry!” she squeaked as John held his hand to his chest, trying to keep it elevated. “John, you’re bleeding!” she said immediately.

John looked down. The handkerchief was already soaked. No use evading. And he couldn’t stitch it by himself. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to stitch this up for me, would you?” he asked. “I don’t have anything.”

“I think I have something in the car that might work,” she said.

“Thanks Molly.”

“Go inside and wash. I’ll be right there.”

John hesitated. He really didn’t feel like explaining things to Mrs. Hudson, and he hadn’t thought of a good enough story. He was a horrible liar. “I’d really not bother Mrs. Hudson,” he said cautiously. 

“She’s not at home,” said Molly as she walked toward her car, which was parked at the back of the house, by Lestrade’s garage. “Went to the shops, and then for tea with Mrs. Sommers.” 

John nodded and made his way inside. The wound really hurt. He cursed his unsteady hands, angry that something as simple as cutting twine posed a threat to his general well-being. He cleaned it well, trying not to bleed all over Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. Molly came in just as he finished. He dried his hands on paper towel and took the gauze she held out for him to keep the wound closed while she got out a suture packet from an emergency surgical kit.

“What did you cut it on?” she asked as she towelled her hands and put on a pair of latex gloves. 

“My knife,” said John, peeking under the gauze at the flap of skin. It extended from his first knuckle to nearly his fingernail. It would take a while to heal, he thought, and he’d have to keep the finger fairly straight until it scabbed over, maybe a week or so. He’d have to snag a finger splint from work. How irritating. 

“I heard you,” she said, ripping open the packet and placing John’s hand on the table where she could inspect it before wiping it down with an antiseptic pad. “I’m sorry I don’t have a local for you.”

“I’ve had worse,” said John, sincerely meaning it.

Molly smiled in her shy way and ripped open the suture packet. “Here goes,” she said, and picked up tweezers and forceps. John watched as she worked, and before long he had a row of eight precise stitches along the ridge of his finger. “Not bad,” he said. She’d gone painfully slow, but the tension was correct and sutures even. She bandaged his finger carefully.

“There. All set.”

John inspected her handiwork and deemed it a job well done. “Molly,” he asked, “How about a beer?”

She smiled. “I’d love one.”

***

The sun was still shining away while John and Molly sat on a bench next to the recently-repaired courtyard fountain. Molly had taken her shoes off and rolled up her trousers, exposing white calves and bright red socks. 

“What a beautiful day,” she said dreamily after taking a swig of Becks. 

John agreed. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the sun, the sun whose novelty had worn off after just a few weeks in the Helmand province. The sun was just another enemy there, one that caused heatstroke and dehydration and constant sweat. To the moors of Yorkshire, though, the sun was a welcome friend. Even the flowers rejoiced, bursting forth in great blooms of colour. The warm weather wasn’t predicted to last long, so John enjoyed it while he could. 

“You did good work,” said John. “Sure you wouldn’t prefer to be a surgeon?

“No. Pathology’s so much more interesting. It’s the research I like. It’s rather like a game, sometimes. Trying to isolate a pathogen or determine cause of death. I’d prefer to spend most of my time in a lab. People are...complicated.”

John took another sip of his beer. “Don’t I know.”

A robin flew down and landed on the upper tier of the fountain, bathing itself momentarily before flitting off again. “I think that bird’s been keeping tabs on me,” said John. 

Molly laughed. “She might be. I think there’s a nest around here somewhere. She’s probably making sure you don’t bother her babies.”

They sat for a long while quietly, as the fountain gurgled and the birds came to shake their feathers in the spray. “I like it here,” said Molly. “This place has seen its share of sadness, from what I’ve been told. And I’m going to miss it when they sell it off. I don’t have much to call my own, you know. But when I’m working in the stables, or the vegetable garden...it’s like my own little piece of the planet. Well, not mine, really, but entrusted to me. Borrowed for a while. It feels like home.” She blew air out her nose in a little snuffle before finishing her bottle. “And he doesn’t even know what’s under his nose.”

John raised an eyebrow at that. “Who?”

Molly blushed and fiddled with her empty bottle. “You know,” she said, almost embarrassed. “Sherlock.”

John’s eyebrows came together in confusion before it crystalised: Molly was in love then, with a man who would never give her the time of day. Tragic, really, he thought. She was sweet. “I don’t think he’s really, um, interested in relationships,” John began.

“Oh, I know. It’s just that...he deserves to be happy.”

John shook his head. Everyone kept saying that, it seemed. Sherlock chose his lot, and depression aside, John thought that the man was very comfortable in his own skin, as happy as he could be as long as his mind was stimulated. 

“I’m not sure he feels things like you or I do,” John volunteered. “Love. Intimacy. I don’t even think that’s a blip on his radar.” 

Molly shook her head and pursed her lips together, as if she knew something more but was not interested in sharing. John suddenly felt very sorry for her and wondered how long she’d been pining after Sherlock. He couldn’t imagine how one would even approach him, ask him on a date or something. Tempt him with a crime scene? Offer him a trip to a mortuary? He smiled at the thought. Sherlock had insinuated that he was gay. If he even had a type, what would he be? A suave intellectual? A gormless prettyboy? A flamboyant artist? John tried to picture Sherlock with another man, at a restaurant sharing a bottle of wine, or a concert, or even just sitting around reading the paper. He failed utterly. Whoever was special enough to hold Sherlock’s interest, it sure wasn’t Molly.

He was struck by the urge to share something with her, something to thank her for fixing his finger, something to ameliorate some of the pain of being rejected by a man who maybe was incapable of love altogether. Then, he knew.

“Molly,” he said, “You really like this place.”

She nodded.

John leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”

***

“Wow,” said Molly, taking in the locked garden. “Just...wow. How on earth did you find the keys?”

“Toby, really. Found them in the courtyard, actually. By the statute of the bloke with the pipes. Keep your voice down. I’m not sure how well sound carries.” 

“I heard you swear earlier,” she confessed, whispering. “I wondered where you were. This place is amazing.” She walked down the gravel path, pausing to look at John’s handiwork. “You’ve done a good job here. I think those are hollyhocks.”

“Well, there’s quite a bit more to go, as you can see. Most of the perennials are all choked out by weeds and grass. I think everything needs fertiliser and at some point in time I’m going to have to trim all the hedges.” 

“Just wait until summer. I bet it will be so beautiful!” 

“It’s a wild place now, Molly. There’s nettles and briars, so wear good gloves.”

“What were you doing when you…” she mimed cutting her finger.

“Making supports for the hollyhocks. See these?” He stooped, laying his cane to the side so he could get closer to the tall plants growing along the side of the wall. “They need stakes. Bamboo ones, ideally. All I’ve got is sticks at the moment.”

“I do know a thing or two about plants, John,” she teased. “I didn’t know you were interested.”

“I wasn’t, to be honest. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just something about this place. There’s something very... cathartic...about it.”

Molly nodded. “I’d like to work on it with you,” she said. “But I’m not here again until Friday.” 

“That’s fine,” said John. “It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”

“No,” she said sadly, “but we will. As soon as Sherlock’s gone, I’m sure Mycroft will find a buyer, and then…”

They sat there quietly for a moment, each lost in thought, until the robin flew into the garden to rest on the ledge of the birdbath.

“Oh, there she is again!” said Molly.

“Sure that’s the same bird?”

“Of course it is, silly.”

It looked like any other robin, though John, but was strangely pleased that this particular one had taken a shining to his garden. 

“Hello, pretty,” said Molly, smiling away. The robin answered back, chirping a few times, before flying off again, up to the right and out of sight beyond the tall wall. 

They let themselves out, both feeling rather like school children, giddy with the knowledge that they had a special place of their own, a secret garden hidden from the eyes of the world.

As they made their way to the exit, John saw the robin again, just as it had been before, perched on Sherlock’s ledge.


	13. It's not a date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may look like one, but it's not a date. Nope. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the usual suspects for betaing and cheerleading. Love you guys! And thanks to all the readers who have left such nice comments. I can't believe it half the time. Thanks so much.

Chapter 13: It’s not a date

John’s latest blog entries were set to private. He wrote about the garden, about the things he’d learned about plants and flowers. Sometimes he wrote about loneliness, formless poems that were for his eyes only. He wrote about the people who were now in his life, and sometimes he wrote about the people who were no longer in his life. 

His public entries were mostly links to interesting medical journal articles or quick, meaningless posts to prove to Harry that he was coping. At first he wasn’t even sure he wanted to keep the blog, although he did enjoy writing. It wasn’t like the whole world was reading it anyway. There was Mike, who’d always been a bit of a computer geek, and who’d found it right away after John told him that he didn’t use Facebook. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of mentioning it to Mrs. Hudson, who promptly subscribed, told Molly about it, and invited her friend Mrs. Turner as well. Sarah subscribed and always commented with animated smiley faces. He wondered if Ella still checked it, he was sure, even though he had called her to say he was discontinuing therapy. 

One morning he wrote up Sherlock’s cat case. He titled it “Vigilante Catastrophe” and after tinkering with it for several hours, proclaimed it fit for public viewing. He hit “post” and went off in search of Sherlock.

***

Sherlock had hijacked Mycroft’s office. It was the only place in the giant house that the internet worked properly, so Sherlock had commandeered it and moved every piece of chemical equipment he had to set up a laboratory of sorts. John leaned in the doorway, watching with amusement as Sherlock wiped Mycroft’s desk clear of papers and knicknacks, scattering things to the floor. Childish, yes. Still funny. Especially because Sherlock looked the part of the mad scientist: his hair wild and pushed up out of his face by safety goggles, dressing gown unbelted and flapping about, his long feet bare. He was attaching a clamp to a ring stand when the doorbell chimed.

“Oh!” he said, “that must be my samples. Would you, John?”

John opened the front door to see Adam Owens, the postman, holding a large white polystyrene container. 

“For Sherlock Holmes,” he said as John signed for the package. “He’s back for a while, then?”

Something about the tone of the postman’s voice suggested he wasn’t thrilled at the news. It made John bristle. “Yeah,” he said curtly and handed the clipboard back to Owens. 

Owens studied John for a moment, and John wondered if he had more to say. He must have thought better of it, for he wished John a good day and went back to his red van. 

John shut the door and peeked inside the container. Opening the lid he found clear plastic bags containing something fleshy and meaty and entirely off-putting.

“Um, Sherlock?” he asked, carrying the container in and depositing it on a free spot on Sherlock’s new worktop. “Please tell me there aren’t human parts in this.”

“Hmm? Human? No. Too expensive. And you never know what you’re getting on the black market. These organs are entirely porcine.”

“Pig entrails.”

“Of course, John. Do keep up. Need to test corrosivity of simple bases on soft tissue. I told you all about it yesterday.”

“I didn’t see you yesterday.”

“Not my fault you weren’t listening.”

John sighed as Sherlock dug through the box, inspecting each bag, eyes lighting up at some. “Ooh,” he said, delighted, “an extra skin sample! I love it when Sammy sends bonuses.”

“Sammy?”

“Butcher in Leeds. Helped him find a stolen chihuahua once. His daughter’s boyfriend had taken off with it. He’s been appreciative ever since.”

“And when was that?”

“Twenty years ago or so.”

“You were solving crimes when you were ten?”

“Fourteen.”

“And he is still ‘appreciative’?” John gestured to the box of parts.

“It was a very nice chihuahua.”

John chuckled. “Must have been. Did you go to Leeds frequently when you were a kid?”

“Mummy enjoyed going to the Grand Theatre and Opera House, and my father liked visiting the tropical gardens at Roundhay Park. We were often busy when I was young, but Mummy got started on her research and Mycroft went off to London and... I enjoy solitude. Sometimes I’d go into the city by myself, just to explore. It’s not London, but it’s a decent enough place. Above-average crime rate. Harold Shipman studied medicine there.”

“Shipman...the doctor serial killer?”

“The very one. Turns out he was not as adept at falsifying wills as he was injecting elderly women with diamorphine.”

“So you know a lot about serial killers, then?”

Sherlock was examining a package that looked like it contained several livers. John should have found it macabre. He didn’t. “Of course. They’re usually quite a bit smarter than the average criminal. It would be an interesting challenge. Getting into the mind of a killer, outsmarting him. Most are men. Statistically. All sorts of motives, too. And methods of murder. There’s your ritualistic killer, usually some sort of zealot, the truly psychotic killer, unpredictable and dangerous, the greedy killer, who will eventually make a mistake: that’s Shipman for you. There’s always the element of time involved, for a serial killer will kill again. It’s an elaborate game between the killer and those who want to catch him.”

John frowned at this. “That’s horrible.”

Sherlock put the pig livers back in the cooler. “Yes, it is. It’s too bad the police have their heads so far up their arses and their hands tied by all this bureaucratic red tape. I use unconventional methods and pure logical reasoning. Much faster.”

John couldn’t argue. He knew enough from the medical system that the best ways of dealing with problems were often complicated by the NHS and endless paperwork. Why would criminal justice be any different?

“Anyhow,” said Sherlock, moving on from the pig parts to again assembling his chemical apparatus, “you don’t think my brother will mind too terribly much if I accidentally ruined his carpet, do you? One of the bags seems to have sprung a leak.”

John rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just go to a lab? Find a place to do your research that’s actually set up for this type of thing. With better microscopes. And a chemical hood. Maybe real cadavers.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve been chucked out of most of the major university labs and Cambridge threatened to sue me if I even approached the Medical Research buildings...I’m officially persona non grata.”

John chewed his lip. “You know,” he said, “maybe I can help you out with that. Let me make a call. Have you been banned from Jimmy’s?”

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “Not yet.”

***

John sat in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen at 6.45 the following morning. He ate his muesli and browsed _The Guardian_ as he waited for Sherlock to get ready. Mike, bless him, had been more than accommodating in letting Sherlock tour his lab, and John sincerely hoped his new friend wouldn’t burn his bridges before they were even built. They were expected in Leeds at ten and he’d hoped to catch the 8 o’clock train, but Sherlock seemed to be taking his sweet time doing whatever he was doing. John was about to text him to tell him to get a move on when he appeared in the doorway. Or at least some very good-looking and put-together version of the man he’d hitherto seen in scruffy T-shirts, old pyjamas, and a dressing gown. 

This Sherlock was dressed in tight dark jeans, suede ankle boots, a dark plum-coloured button-down shirt and a black leather jacket. John had to do a double-take. He looked like a model. An arrogant and handsome model, complete with leather manbag. 

John must have looked impressed, for Sherlock shrugged and said, “I clean up well.” He went to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Bit vain, are we?”

 

Sherlock smiled and raised a singular eyebrow, causing John to laugh. “You really are, aren’t you?” 

Sherlock looked at him smugly as he spooned two sugars into his cup. “Don’t really think I _paid_ for narcotics, do you?”

“I don’t think money’s much of a problem for you.”

“Still. I value economy.”

“Jesus. You probably hoovered up thousands of pounds’ worth of coke. For free! You probably winked or fluttered your damn eyelashes and that was that.”

Sherlock’s smile faded, and so did the sparkle he’d had in his eyes moments before. “I didn’t say I didn’t negotiate,” he said, quietly. “Nothing’s ever free.” He sipped his coffee and looked out the window.

“Hey. Hey, Sherlock…” John stood, realising he’d stuck his foot in his mouth. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I…”

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock firmly. The vague, disinterested look he had sometimes was back. “Let’s get going.”

John let it drop. “The train’s at 8.” He was going to suggest that Sherlock eat something, but thought better of it. 

Sherlock continued to stare out the window at whatever had captured his attention for a moment more before finishing his coffee and placing the cup in the sink. “I’m not taking the train,” he announced. “Boring! I hate the train. All those people.”

“Please tell me you didn’t hire a car.”

“No. Lestrade tells me he’s kept my motorbike.”

“ _Your_ motorbike? The Kawasaki?” John felt uncomfortable knowing he’d been riding around on something of Sherlock’s without his expressed permission.

“Of course.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll meet you there.”

“Don’t be dull, John. You’re coming with me.”

“On your motorbike.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes, I have a licence and I assure you I am a perfectly safe driver.”

John eyed him dubiously as he rinsed his own bowl and cup and loaded them into the dishwasher. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

Sherlock smiled again and shouldered his bag. “I’ll pick you up at the front door, in 10 minutes.”

John packed his own backpack. He wondered if he’d ever be able to go anywhere without something strapped to his back again. He still struggled with a feeling of nakedness, the feeling of being _too light_ without his gear and weapon. If he had one still, he’d have packed that, too. A water bottle, a basic first aid kit, and a packet of M &Ms would have to do.

Sherlock was waiting for him at the front entrance, balancing himself on the bike with one foot on the ground. As John approached, he was aware of a strange, vaguely uncomfortable feeling bloom in his gut. He guessed he really hadn’t expected to drive, but to ride as the pillion passenger gave him a bit of pause. 

Sherlock held out a helmet. “Trust me,” he said over the noise of the bike. 

Trust. Jesus fucking shit. That again.

“You’ll be fine,” Sherlock continued. 

“I’ve ridden before,” groused John as he fastened his helmet. In what must have been the most awkward moment he’d had in awhile, John tucked his collapsible walking stick in his backpack and clambered onto the back of the bike. He was painfully aware of Sherlock’s proximity. It was the first time he’d been this close to another human in months. He felt around for a place to put his hands other than Sherlock’s waist, which just seemed too intimate. John tried to put some more room between their bodies and realised there was nowhere else to go.

“Relax a bit. Don’t be too stiff or we’ll topple over. You might want to hang on to me. Waist, not arms or shoulders.”

John hesitated, his hands still clasping the grab bar. “I thought you said you were a safe rider,” he shouted. 

“Safe, yes,” Sherlock replied. “Slow, no.”

And with that, he took off, and John abandoned his concerns about intimacy and grabbed Sherlock around the waist for dear life. By the time they reached the main road, John was pressed flush against Sherlock’s back, the cool wind making the sleeves of his jacket flap wildly. The sound of the engine concealed his laughter. It was fucking glorious.

***

Riding with Sherlock was by far the most exhilarating thing John had done since he’d been home. Shooting pheasants had been cathartic, but there was something freeing in letting someone else have control for once. Sherlock took the rural back roads to Leeds, winding through lush, green pastures still covered with morning dew. Their circuitous path added time to their drive but generally avoided traffic. He drove faster than he probably should when they hit open stretches of road, taking off too quickly and rounding corners just a bit too fast, just enough to get John’s adrenaline going a bit. Perhaps being cooped up for so long made Sherlock reckless, made him feel the need to push the boundaries a bit. Something told John, though, that boundaries didn’t mean much to Sherlock in the first place. 

John was thoroughly enjoying himself, so much so that he forgot he was holding tightly to another man until the green fields, moors, and little villages gave way to Leeds’ urban sprawl. At a traffic light he removed his hands from Sherlock’s sides in favour of the grab bar. Sherlock seemed to know his way around Leeds well enough, and soon they were at the collection of mismatched buildings known as St. James Hospital.

They met Mike outside the Institute of Genetics, Health, and Therapeutics, where he greeted John warmly.

“John’s told me all about you,” he said to Sherlock as they made their way into the building. 

“Oh really?” queried Sherlock, turning to John. John shrugged.

“Says you’re a certified genius.”

“Also said you’re running experiments in the study on pig livers,” John added, trying not to feel embarrassed at the amount of praise he’d given Sherlock. It was all true, though; Sherlock _was_ amazing. 

“He said you’ve had some difficulties at other universities?”

Sherlock made a face. “I may have damaged some equipment. Once. Or maybe twice.”

“What is it, exactly, that you’re researching?”

Mike opened the door to a room marked “Lab 4” and switched on the lights. It was a small standard classroom, with several workstations, two chemical hoods on each side, and metal stools surrounding a central lab table. It was clean and gleaming, newly remodeled.

“Crime forensics, mainly. Most forensics experts are idiots. So far I’ve specialised in dirt, which is like a fingerprint in and of itself, aquatic microbiology, pollen, explosives, poisons, ballistics, animal hair and dander, and perfume. I have a blog, if you’re interested.”

“You forgot the ash,” said John.

“And tobacco ash,” added proudly. “My favourite.”

Mike looked properly impressed. “What are the pig livers for?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was bored. Thought I’d work on extracting enzymes.”

“Please don’t tell me you were going to do the liver catalase and hydrogen peroxide reaction in your brother’s study,” John groaned.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “Perish the thought, John. As far as a proper lab is concerned, I’d really just like a decent place to do a decent PCR and access to a centrifuge and incubator.”

“You’re welcome to the thermal cycler,” said Mike, leading them over to an open workspace. “Clean what you use, replace what you break. So detective work, eh?”

“Consulting detective,” corrected Sherlock, eyeing an expensive-looking microscope. “May I?”

Mike nodded.

John marvelled at the new technology; it had been so long since John had been in a proper lab, and everything looked so new and different.

“Changed a bit from our day,” he said to Mike as he perused the equipment. 

“That’s for certain. Amazing what some of the new kit can do. Cancer treatments, for example. Everything’s so much more precise, targeted. Clean. It’s beautiful.”

John nodded and felt a pang of nostalgia for his university days, when he learned the mysteries of the human body, its physiology, anatomy, and biochemistry. He was so young and eager, so desperate to get away from his family and make something of himself.

“I’d like to show you around,” continued Mike, pausing to turn off his computer work station. “It’s probably against protocol, but you’re welcome to stay for an hour,” he said to Sherlock, who had already started to unpack his bag, placing a notebook and several containers on the worktop. 

Sherlock thanked him politely, and Mike held the door for John.

“Consulting detective,” he said as he shut the door behind him, emphasizing the modifier and raising his eyebrows. 

“Yeah. But more than that. He sees things. Probably knows all about you from the style of glasses you chose and the tie you’re wearing. It’s uncanny.”

“Sounds like a good party trick.”

“That’s the thing,” said John as they walked down the hallway. “It’s not a trick. It’s…” He couldn’t think of the words. “It’s just Sherlock,” he settled on. “Thanks for letting him in. I don’t suppose it will be a regular thing. He’s not got the best people skills, I’ll warn you.”

“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” Mike said amiably. “I’ll check out his blog. Would you like to see the trauma centre?”

John tested his feelings and found that he did, indeed. 

***

“Eating, Sherlock,” grumbled John as they toured the Thackray Medical Museum. “Some of us have to have lunch.” He and Sherlock had bid goodbye to Mike when Sherlock insisted they stop at the museum. Apparently Sherlock had visited as a child and remembered it fondly. John had wanted to go anyway, but he hadn’t counted on the sheer size of it or how critical (and loud) his companion would turn out to be. The library and resource centre had proved interesting, and Sherlock found several old volumes that interested him, which he showed to John with the enthusiasm of a small child. The two of them poked around for the better part of an hour before visiting the museum’s recreation of a Victorian street replete with all sorts of medical maladies. 

“These dioramas are horrible,” said Sherlock, scrutinizing a grisly-looking scene of a boy at a nineteenth-century butcher shop. “Why on earth would there be blood all over the walls? Someone got enthusiastic with a paintbrush. No one does research! That splatter should go up, not down. The angle’s all wrong!”

John ignored the blood and the museum worker who was glaring daggers in Sherlock's direction. The fake meats were actually looking fairly appetising. “Food, Sherlock. Concentrate. It’s not like you haven’t seen these before.”

“How did I not notice this before? Tragic, really. Utter rubbish. I must have deleted it.”

“You what?”

“Deleted.” Sherlock turned away from the offending exhibit and moved on scene in which a plastic girl was in the process of having her gangrened limb amputated by a plastic doctor with a very real-looking blade. “I have a memory system of sorts. Look, John. They don’t have any bandages. And she’s going to bleed all over the floor if they cut her like that. Have you done amputations?”

“Unfortunately, yes. So, do you have an eidetic memory, then?”

“Sadly, no. I’ve built a mind palace. It’s a mental filing system of sorts. Allows me to access obscure things I’ve memorized by linking them to more accessible schema.”

“I see,” said John, not seeing. “A mind palace.”

“I can only keep so much in there. It’s not infinite. So I delete the things I don’t need. Don’t ask me questions about history if it doesn’t deal with crime. I’m afraid I have very little use for politics and war, who conquered whom. Dreadfully dull.”

“What about ‘learn from the past’ and all that?”

“Trust me, John. No one ever learns anything.”

John took a look around at the barbarity of early modern medicine and decided Sherlock had a very limited view of progress. 

“The vast majority of people on this planet are idiots,” added Sherlock waving his hand around to designate everyone in the general vicinity, John included.

“I see.”

“Oh don’t look at me that way. It’s not personal. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in your funny little brains.”

“Well, I know what’s going on in my stomach, genius.”

A group of youngsters were being guided around by a woman in Victorian nursing uniform. Sherlock eyed the children dubiously. “Fine. I know somewhere. Do you like Italian?”

***

“Stamford liked you. I didn’t know you could be charming,” said John as they were seated at a small, quaint trattoria, the owner of which Sherlock had apparently “helped out” in the past. It seemed that he’d done a fair bit of “helping out”. John wondered if it was his way of restoring order to the universe for every lab he’d ruined or person he verbally eviscerated. He’d deduced several passers-by on their walk from the hospital to the restaurant, and while John was suitably impressed, he was also struck by the flippancy in which he ticked off their faults, vices, and secrets. “I’m not being cruel,” Sherlock tried to explain when John called him on it. “Just stating what I see.” His cold, calculating deductions seemed incongruous with the semblance of congeniality he’d put on earlier at the lab. John found himself wondering if maybe there wasn’t something accurate in that antisocial personality disorder diagnosis after all.

“Politeness can be useful,” said Sherlock, shrugging out of his leather jacket. “People are so easily manipulated. A few pleases and thank yous and puppy dog eyes can work wonders.” 

Oh. It was all an act then. John found himself disappointed. “I see.” 

“I’ve said something wrong.”

“It’s fine.”

Sherlock chewed at his lower lip, eyebrows coming together. _He makes the most interesting faces when he’s stumped_ , John thought to himself. “Look, Sherlock. It’s…”

“Of course I don’t mean you,” he interrupted. “People. People who are not you.”

“Right.” John didn't even bother to hide his sarcasm.

“Oh! Mike then. No, Stamford is a decent enough fellow. Dreadfully boring, I’m afraid. Married, two cats, high cholesterol, favours yellow mustard, excellent researcher though terribly disorganised, well-respected by colleagues and students. I wonder if he knows anyone with a mass spectrometer.”

“So you were polite simply because you wanted to use his lab.”

“Yes. No?” Sherlock breathed out his nose and looked genuinely distressed. He’d opened his mouth to say something more but it seemed to have got stuck. Just then, a heavily built man with a greying ponytail exclaimed, “Well if it isn’t Sherlock Holmes!” and slapped Sherlock on the back.

“John, this is Angelo,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, this man here, he saved me,” said Angelo. “I would have gone to prison if it weren’t for him!”

“You did go to prison,” clarified Sherlock.

“For much longer time if it weren’t for him. Genius! Such a great man. Whatever you want, it’s on the house. For you and your date.”

What? “I’m not his date,” John said, looking up. Did he _look_ like Sherlock’s date? 

Angelo gave him a knowing look and Sherlock didn’t bother to correct him. “I’ll get you the mussels linguine, Mr. Holmes. Very fresh. Extra lemon.”

“I’ll have the aubergine parmigiana,” said John, trying to choose something quickly and wondering if he looked like the kind of man Sherlock would ask out for dinner. Maybe Sherlock _did_ date. Maybe he’d brought someone here before. John found it amusing that someone would think a plain, ordinary man in a tartan shirt would be the choice of Mr. Brilliant Model across from him. 

“Si, si,” said Angelo. “It’s very good. And a candle. For the romance.” 

John raised his eyebrows questioningly at Sherlock after Angelo had left. “Your _date_?”

“People see what they want to see,” Sherlock explained. “No use in trying to correct them.” His earlier distress seemed to have been forgotten.

“I’m not your date.”

“No.”

“I thought you said you didn’t do that type of thing, anyway?”

“I don’t. We’re eating together, John. I have no intentions of propositioning you, if you’re concerned about it.”

John puffed up a bit. “I’m not ‘concerned’. I’m not a homophobe, Sherlock.”

“No, I know you’re not.” Sherlock smiled then, a tiny hint of a smile that spoke volumes, and John felt himself flush. _He knows,_ he thought. _Jesus, he knows about Murray_. 

Thankfully, a waiter arrived with a basket of steaming bread. _It’s not a date_ John told himself as he chewed. John didn’t date men. And even if he did, he certainly didn’t date men with dubious moral standards, little empathy, and acidic wit, no matter how smart they were. 

_Two friends eating a late lunch together. Totally mundane. Not. A. Date._

***

Any awkwardness he may have felt at the beginning of their meal was gone by the time his food arrived. John ate with gusto while Sherlock did more storytelling than chewing. He took an occasional bite, but most of his food was pushed from one side of the plate to the other.

John found himself more relaxed than he’d been in a long time. Sherlock’s stories were interesting, and in spite of the man’s infuriating quirks of personality, he was exceedingly good company. More than once John found himself laughing at something or shaking his head in disbelief. Time seemed to fly by. Dessert was eventually set in front of him, and he ate it, occasionally pushing the plate toward Sherlock, who actually took a bite or two of the delicate layers of tiramisu. 

By the time they’d finished, it had gone 4 o’clock. John, having had one of his best days in ages, found himself not ready to go back to Holmes Hall. “While we’re here, is there anywhere else you’d like to go?” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager.

Sherlock thought, then raised his eyebrows. “Bit of a tourist trap, but Winnicott Hall has beautiful gardens. Country house, church, cemetery, that kind of thing. Not too far away. Ruins on the property, too. Not too far north of here. Interested?”

“Lead on,” said John.

He wouldn’t realize until much later that he’d left his walking stick.


	14. A Colorful Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still not a date. But it IS a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit I'm rather proud of myself for this chapter. I'm really rather shit at writing case-based plot, and I came up with this one mostly on my own, and with some help from Canola Crush, who is very good at murders and motive, and BettySwallocks, who helped with all things British (and writing in general), it came together. Thank you, readers, for helping to spread the word about this story that is so dear to me, and thanks for every kind comment and note -- I will try to respond to them all now that I have some more free time.

Chapter 14: A Colourful Case 

Sherlock wove the bike expertly through clogged traffic, and a short half hour later they were pulling up to what appeared to be a massive country house estate. Instead of being overrun by tourists, however, the place was swarming with runners. 

Sherlock stopped the bike on a lawn that had been turned into an overflow carpark and took off his helmet. John did the same, but Sherlock was making no move to actually get off the bike. 

“What on earth are they doing, John?” Sherlock asked, completely baffled as he tried to make sense of a 5K Colour Run that had apparently taken over the Estate Grounds for the afternoon. John could see the “start” and “finish” flags flapping across the large expanse of field. The massive stately home sat perched on a hill above.

“Running, Sherlock. It’s a race of sorts.”

John could nearly hear Sherlock’s eyes rolling. “That’s plainly clear. My point is _why_? “What’s the _point_ of the...?” he flapped his hand, unable to articulate the carnival of colour.

“Fun.”

“What could possibly be _fun_ about having colored powder thrown at you?” 

John shrugged. He jogged occasionally, but he’d never really seen the appeal of organized races. “At least it gets people interested in fitness,” he attempted to explain. “Gives people a reason to exercise, disguises it as fun. A good excuse to get dirty and act like a child. Maybe raise money for charity or something.”

“It’s exceedingly juvenile. They’re ruining the aesthetic. No one told me about this.”

“Did you check the website before we came?”

“Why would I do that? This is a stately home for tourists, not some playground for a bunch of pseudo-athletes with questionable tastes in amusement.”

John chuckled.

The massive hall stood on its hill, proud and majestic, while the orgiastic colour spectacular at the finish line rioted on below. He could almost imagine the original earl of the manor’s ghost standing on the front veranda, looking disapprovingly at the defilement of his estate.

The air above the throng of people had turned into a purple miasma. A hipster whose beard was now a spectacular shade of yellow was carrying a woman on his shoulders. Her sports bra (and entire torso) was covered with blue and pink splotches. One of the race marshalls discharged a fire extinguisher in their direction, spraying both of them green. 

They looked like they were having a whale of a time, actually, thought John. 

Pink dust was settling along the shoulders of Sherlock’s black leather jacket, and he flicked at it in annoyance. “Let’s come back a different day. Too many people.”

“No, come on,” said John, trying to get off the bike without toppling both of them over. “If everyone’s here for the race, there won’t be so many people poking about the rest of the place.”

Sherlock considered, then put down the kickstand and climbed off. “Came to a car show with my father here once,” he said as they walked along a gravel path away from the chaos of the 5K and toward the house. “A long time ago. Dreadfully boring. Mycroft and I ran off. There’s castle ruins in the woods north of the main house. Mycroft told me he’d explored it once by himself when I was too little to go with him. But when we got there, we found they’d put up a locked fence.” Sherlock huffed out a little laugh. “I wept.” 

“You ran off with Mycroft?”

“As I once said, we were close.”

John didn’t want to pry, so he kept his mouth shut as they walked along.

“The house is relatively uninteresting, unless you like looking at room after room of old furniture. The Japanese Garden is rather beautiful.”

A rousing cheer went up from the throng in the distance as another round of colour mortars exploded. 

“And hopefully,” grumbled Sherlock, “quiet.”

Behind the house were the gardens, several acres worth of manicured beds, evergreens tamed into spheres and spirals. It was very formal and proper and worlds away from John’s secret garden, the one he’d slowly but surely reclaimed from the clutches of time. He felt no sense of communion with these plots of green and brown. They were too perfect, too rigid, too controlled by the human hand, hoe, and spade. A huge fountain stood in the middle of the formal garden’s quadrangle. It featured a larger-than-life-sized copper statue of Theseus, in all his nude glory. Sherlock waggled his eyebrows as they passed and John giggled. He was suddenly possessed with the idea of throwing a colour bomb at its genitals.

They continued not to say much as they wandered around the path, past various themed gardens, small fountains, and then around a decently-sized fish pond. John was thinking of nothing in particular, simply enjoying the weather, when Sherlock tugged on his sleeve. 

“This way,” he said quietly, and veered off the path.

John followed Sherlock, who had picked up speed, into the woods. Pine needles crunched under his feet as the green canopy above him grew thicker. They climbed a small hill and rounded a corner and sure enough, there were Sherlock’s ruins. 

John looked up at what was, at one point, a fortress of some sort. Its basic structure still stood, three stories of thick, rough-cut stone, but it had been overrun with ivy; slime dripped from where water pooled and trickled down. Moss clung to cracks and crevices. Sunlight filtered down from the break in the forest canopy, casting flickering shadows everywhere. It was almost otherworldly.

“Woah,” he said.

Sherlock smiled. 

“Too bad it’s all locked up. Probably a bit of a liability, though. Probably really unstable. Sherlock? Wait, what are you doing?”

Sherlock had dug something out of his pocket and was fiddling with the padlock and chain that kept the chain-linked fence closed. In the blink of an eye, he’d picked the lock.

“I was disappointed once,” he said. “I do so hate to be disappointed.” He opened the gate and strode in like he owned the place. He was nearly inside the structure when he looked back at John, who still stood outside. Breaking and entering really wasn’t on his list of socially acceptable activities.

“Coming?” asked Sherlock.

John’s feet must have made his decision for him, for he quickly slipped through the door and closed it behind him, hoping he hadn’t been seen, before clambering over the fallen stones after Sherlock, who had disappeared into what remained of the building.

John ducked through once what was a portcullis, its iron gate long gone, and into the structure’s interior. The inner courtyard looked like some exotic movie set, all green, creeping ivy, ancient stone, and sunlight beaming overhead. He cautiously moved over slippery stones, avoiding stagnant, shallow pools of water, to Sherlock’s side. 

“Twelfth century,” Sherlock said quietly. “Look around you. What do you see?”

John looked. He knew very little about castles, nor had he ever particularly cared. But there was something special about being here, in this forbidden place, with Sherlock. So he looked, tired see what his friend’s keen eyes had already figured out.

“Um, it’s, made from several types of stone, so likely completed over several decades or even centuries.”

“Good.”

“And...I don’t see anything that looks defensive. Too many windows.” He turned in place, looking up. “And there’s some ornamental masonry there. The walls are rather thick, but I don’t think this was a defensive fortress.”

“It wasn’t.”

“What happened to it?”

“Don’t know. I’m not an archeologist, and the church that housed all of the records burned down in 1748. It’s been empty for a very, very long time. Come on.” Sherlock elegantly skipped from one stone to the other, making his way over to one of the towers. John could see a spiral stone staircase within. 

“Watch your step,” he said as loudly as he dared after Sherlock before making his way over there himself. He took the stairs carefully, and eventually found Sherlock sitting along a walkway that connected the north and east towers. John had never been particularly fond of heights, but he sat next to Sherlock nonetheless and prayed the thing was sturdy. 

“Mycroft would be so jealous,” Sherlock said softly. “He would like to have seen this again.” Sherlock picked up a pebble next to him and tossed it down. It bounced on the stones below before rolling into a clump of grass that would never meet the blades of a mower.

“He blames me, you know,” he said. “For what happened to my father.”

John took a pebble himself and tossed it, too. They were a long way up. “What happened?”

Sherlock exhaled, fiddled with his fingers for a moment. “I’d love a cigarette,” he said. 

“None left.” 

Sherlock smirked and drew a single, slightly worse-for-wear Marlboro Light from his breast pocket.

“You little shit! When did you get that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Of course you do.”

“And no lighter.” Sherlock broke the thing in half and tossed it down. 

“Litterer.”

“It was low tar anyway. Impossible to maintain a habit these days. Mummy hated it. It was all Mycroft’s fault I began in the first place. He picked it up at school, thought it made him look dignified. I stole them when he wasn’t looking and he had no one to complain to.” Sherlock laughed darkly. “Do you have a patch?”

“I’m not your personal nicotine dispenser,” grumbled John. “Go and buy your own. Carry them yourself.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

John sighed, pulled off and unzipped his backpack, and handed one over. Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket, rolled up his sleeve, and slapped it on. They sat there in silence, the leaves rustling overhead as the breeze blew. John tossed down a few more pebbles and was considering getting up to keep exploring when Sherlock started talking.

“My father was killed in the garden when I was 13. I was supposed to have been helping him. There was this plum tree. Blasted thing was prone to diseases and too old to really produce any good fruit any more, but my father loved the damn thing. As a child I was interested in gardening with him. He taught me the names of the flowers and everything I really needed to know about basic biology. My father wasn’t brilliant, not like my mother. But he was intelligent enough and knew rather a lot about the things he found interesting. But by the time I’d entered into my teen years, I’d become sullen and moody. More so than the average teen. I’d been a difficult child, and my adolescence was particularly awkward. I already had very little use for the things other teens seemed to want: friends, video game systems, sports, going to parties. Everyone was boring and stupid.”

John wanted to say something along the lines of, “How much has changed,” but thought better of it. 

“By that time,” Sherlock continued, “I was already training myself to use logic to solve problems. Emotion and sentiment were...complicated. It was easier to disconnect.”

“Is this about the time of your ‘diagnosis’ you seem so fond of?” John asked.

“No. That was later. Anyway, my father had asked me to help. With the plum tree. Pruning it, again. He didn’t need my help with that ladder. He was very sure on his feet.”

“But he fell,” said John after Sherlock seemed to dry up.

“He was murdered.”

“Murdered? Are you sure?”

“My father had a particular habit. He wore a flower in his buttonhole every day. Without fail, John. Every. Single. Day. Mummy tucked one in his lapel on the day they met and he’d done it ever since. Usually it was one he’d grown himself, outdoors or in a hothouse, but sometimes in the winter months when nothing was blooming, he’d go to a florist and buy a bouquet just so he would have one every day of the week. It was the first thing he did, every morning, right after breakfast. He was a meticulous man. He didn’t have a flower when Mummy found him.”

“Maybe it...fell out when he slipped?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It happened in the morning. He didn’t have one yet when he’d come to ask me to join him. I told him I was busy, but he implored. I refused. So he would have gone to his garden, chosen something that suited him for the day, put it in his buttonhole, and begun his work. It’s what he would have done.”

“Maybe he just forgot about it that day.”

Sherlock looked at John, really looked at him, and for the first time John could see something more there, something beyond the genius, behind the precise logic: Sherlock had loved his father. Maybe not in the same way that most young boys do (John surely had enough residual anger and resentment toward his own), but he had loved him. And more than that, he was convinced, without a doubt, that his father had been murdered. John was fully inclined to believe him.

“He didn’t _forget_. There was someone else there, I’m sure of it. However he came to fall from that ladder, that person took my father’s flower. He lay there, dead, for hours, until Mum came back and found him. I didn’t know. So stupid. So incredibly stupid.”

John watched him closely, amazed that Sherlock chose to share this deeply intimate story with him.

“So Mycroft blames you.”

“He says he doesn’t,” Sherlock said bitterly. “But how could he not? He came from Cambridge right away. I told him my concerns, that our father wouldn’t have fallen, and then I cursed mother for moving him so I could have seen exactly how he fell. Mother was so distraught she didn’t want to hear any of it, enraged that I would carry on my ‘stupid obsession with crime’ to our own father’s demise. Privately, Mycroft begged me to solve it. He knew I could. I I thought for days, sat through my father’s funeral in a trance, trying to think, trying to make sense of it, and every time coming up blank, roadblocks everywhere. Logic, clouded by my own sense of loss, guilt. I couldn’t solve it, John. The death was ruled an accident. Mycroft cut down the plum tree with an axe and locked the garden and I haven’t been near it since. And there it is. The dirty Holmes family secret.”

John didn’t know what to say. That was a hell of a confession. He hadn’t said anything half that revealing to Ella.

“And before you associate the way I am with a childhood trauma,” continued Sherlock in a detached, careless tone, “rest assured that I was who I am long before my father died, and likely would have made the same choices regardless. I’m not to be pitied, John. I won’t tolerate it.”

John shrugged his shoulders. In the distance, the sounds of the colour cannons continued. “I don’t pity you,” he said, and meant it. John’s own family issues were complex. And he definitely didn’t want pity from anyone either. But Sherlock had only been 13. Surely he couldn’t have been expected, exceptional mind or not, to solve his own father’s murder?

“Let’s go,” said Sherlock, standing up and brushing himself off. “You’ll want to see the Japanese Garden.” The closeness they’d shared a moment ago had completely evaporated, and John found Sherlock back to his normal, aloof self, as they slipped quietly out of the abandoned castle ruins and back onto the main path.

They took a shortcut through the picturesque Japanese Garden and stood on a curving wooden bridge to watch the koi swim in lazy circles beneath them, before continuing back toward the main entrance. The colour runners were reaching the finish line: plumes of coloured powder shot up into the air and event workers sprayed the waves of runners with fire extinguishers full of colour as they crossed the finish line. John and Sherlock were heading towards the motorbike when a panicked shriek rose up above the general din. John heard someone calling for help, and without even thinking about it, ran from Sherlock’s side to where a small crowd had gathered near the finishing line. Someone was trying to prevent the cannons from going off and someone was yelling for an ambulance.

“I’m a doctor,” he shouted as he pushed his way through. “Let me through; I’m a doctor!”

The crowd parted to reveal a woman on the ground, gasping for breath. John wished he could see her skin, but she was completely covered with coloured powder.

John flung off his backpack and knelt at her side. Her pulse was weak and rapid. “What happened?” John asked, searching the sea of faces around him for someone who knew her. He was vaguely aware that Sherlock had appeared by his side. 

“She was just running,” said another woman. “Just crossed the line. She was fine!”

“History of asthma?” asked John.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

John tore off the race bib from the front of her shirt, but the back, where he should have been able to read her emergency medical information, was completely obscured by bright pink and yellow powder. At some point in the race it must have got wet, too, and he couldn’t make it out. He threw it, useless, to the side.

“What’s her name?”

“Barbara Ewing.”

The woman’s breathing had become desperately laboured. John parted her mouth to see if somehow she had inhaled something that had clogged her windpipe. Her tongue was completely swollen. 

“She’s in anaphylactic shock,” said John, before yelling, “We need an EpiPen!” as loudly as he could. “Anyone have an EpiPen? Get one! Ask around. NOW! What’s she allergic to?” No one had an answer. 

He dug in his backpack and retrieved his kit, found an antiseptic wipe, and did his best to clean a small area of her thigh. The damn colour was _everywhere_ , even up under her running shorts.

There was a murmur among the crowd and shortly someone came up with one. “Barbara, you’re in shock. I’m going to inject you with epinephrine. Can you understand me?” He pulled the safety release from the device.

Barbara’s eyes had gone wide. She couldn’t speak. Without waiting for an answer, John jammed the pen into her thigh. 

He barely registered handing Sherlock the spent syringe before massaging the area. “She’s definitely having an allergic reaction,” he told the group of concerned runners who knelt next to her. They were all wearing t-shirts whose hems had been cut into something of a fringe. “Something triggered it. Are any of you family?”

“Colleagues,” said a woman who was brushing Barbara’s sweaty, powder-stained hair off her brow, “we work at a primary school in Wakefield.”

“Does she run regularly?”

The woman shrugged. “She’s not a marathon runner or anything.”

John racked his brain. What would have caused such a reaction, so suddenly, during a funrun? 

A police officer arrived, his uniform covered in splotches of pink and green powder paint. “Get back, get back, give the man some room,” he demanded. With the major drama concluded, the immediate crowd began to disperse. “She all right?”

“Will be,” said John. He felt the familiar flood of endorphins, the “doctor’s high” of saving a life. And damn did it feel good. “She’s a lucky lady.”

“Thanks for that. I’ve alerted the medical team. They were busy with some wanker who sprained an ankle attempting to run the course backwards. They’ll be right over. Do you know her?”

“No. Just happened to be passing through. I’m a doctor. John Watson.”

The officer noted John’s name in a little notebook. 

“When, exactly, did she have trouble breathing?” John asked Barbara’s fellow teachers, who had begun to relax now that Barbara no longer seemed on the verge of expiration.

“Right after we crossed the finishing line,” said a fit-looking man whose bald head was completely blue.

“And your name?” asked the officer. 

“James Hull...I’m the PE teacher, and Barbara’s our new Deputy Head. She only found out she’d got the job last week when...”

“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted Sherlock. “Did you all cross at the same time?” It was the first question he’d asked since the whole ruckus began. John looked up at him as he continued to monitor Barbara’s pulse and respiration.

“Yeah. Start together, finish together.”

“Except for Chris,” said another woman. “Lad thinks he’s Mo Farah. We told him to bugger off and wait for us at the finish.”

Chris, a leggy man with tiny running shorts, ducked his head and smiled. “I can’t help it if you’re all slowcoaches,” he said.

John watched Sherlock’s eyes dart around. “Your faces are all blue,” he said to the other runners. “Hers is yellow. Why is she yellow?” His voice trailed off but he continued to murmur under his breath, looking from one person to the other in quick succession.

Under his fingers, John felt Barbara's pulse strengthen, and her gasps had lost their desperate quality. She attempted to speak. John had to kneel closer to hear her. It took him a moment, but there it was: one word.

“Pistachios,” said John. “She said she’s allergic to...pistachios.”

The crowd parted to let the ambulance through. Some officials from the race had joined the scene, too. They, too, were covered in coloured powder, but were distinguishable from the racers by their caps, radios, and what-once-were-red polo shirts. “Anaphylaxis,” John told the paramedics as they helped Barbara onto a stretcher and attached a blood pressure cuff. “Allergy to pistachios. Although I can’t imagine she’d ingest one while...”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sherlock suddenly, eyes wide and shining. “Yellow!” 

John looked at him incredulously. “What?”

“The powder, John! Everyone else was sprayed by blue when they crossed the line; she was yellow, someone specifically targeted her.”

The police officer, Anderson, from his ID badge, furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re saying someone packed a fire extinguisher with pistachio dust to fire at her during the race. That’s utterly ridiculous.”

Maybe it was his own adrenaline rush, but John felt instantly annoyed. “She obviously had a reaction to something. It makes sense.”

“Maybe all the powder contains pistachios.”

“It doesn’t,” said one of the event coordinators, looking rather worried. “It’s corn starch. It’s made in the United States. And we fill the extinguishers ourselves at headquarters. It’s very precise and monitored.”

“All of them?” asked Sherlock.

“Well, people do bring their own. You can easily make one with a carbon dioxide canister. We don’t encourage it. ”

“But still,” said Anderson. “Who on earth would want to spray people with pistachios?”

“Person, not people. Do keep up. And that is the question, now, isn’t it?” said Sherlock, not even trying to disguise his distaste for the officier. “The motive? Revenge.”

Anderson snorted. “We have no way of knowing that. There’s no crime here. What do you know, anyway?”

Sherlock trained his unusual eyes on the police officer. _Here it comes_ , thought John.

“I know,” said Sherlock, voice steely, “that you are stationed here today because your boss finds you irritating and frequently incompetent and figured you could handle something as inane as a race where adults behave like children, making you nothing more than a child care provider for the day.” He leaned in closer to Anderson and lowered his voice. John could barely make it out. “I know you failed to pass the sergeant’s examinations. I know you more than occasionally gamble, should avoid dairy even though you don’t, and are secretly having an affair with a fellow officer. I know you liked athletics at school but had disappointing results at county level. I also know that you’ve spent most of today watching the bouncing breasts of the female runners instead of actually doing your job.” 

Anderson went a bit green.

“As I was saying,” continued Sherlock, straightening back up and taking a cotton swab and plastic evidence bag from his jacket, “it was the powder. May I?” he asked Barbara, who was getting ready to be put into the ambulance. She nodded and Sherlock gently swiped her cheek and chin before putting the swab in the bag. “Motive. Revenge. To start with, I don’t think this was a case of attempted murder, so you can cross off what you just wrote down, Anderson.”

The paramedics closed up the van and thanked John once more before heading out. A police car took its place. A beautiful black woman got out and strode confidently onto the scene.

“Oh. Hello there, Freak,” she said to Sherlock.

John felt his attraction for her quickly deflate.

“Ah, yes. Sergeant Sally Donovan. Pleasure to see you again. Oh. Oh, I see. Aiming high, aren’t you, PC. Anderson?”

Sherlock’s dig didn’t fluster Sergeant Donovan a bit. 

“You know her?” asked John, going to Sherlock’s side. 

“Hmm. Yes. Unfortunately.”

Anderson suddenly remembered he was supposed to be in charge. “Mr. Holmes here thinks this is a crime scene,” he said with a haughty laugh. “Thinks the lady there was poisoned by a pistachio!” He laughed, a nasally thing. John wondered how he’d sound with a broken nose.

Donovan sighed. “He’s probably right.”

Anderson glared at her. 

“Still do the thing you do, Holmes?” asked Sally.

“It’s called _observe_ and yes, anyone with half a brain could do the same,” said Sherlock.

“You with him?” Donovan asked John. She barked a laugh. “Fancy that.”

“I’d like five minutes with each witness,” Sherlock said. A large shout came from over by the finish line: apparently the last of the stragglers had come in. 

“Now look here,” sputtered Anderson.

“Just let him, Phil,” said Donovan. “He’s a freak. But he’s useful.”

Grumbling, Anderson went about separating the witnesses and began taking their statements. Most of Barbara’s fellow teachers sat on the ground, nursing water bottles and wiping themselves off with towels provided by the event marshalls. Sherlock avoided Anderson and talked to each witness separately. One he skipped completely. John couldn’t hear what he was asking them, but he was amused by the facial expressions they made in response. Further away, racers were towelling off, still screeching and hooting. Some had even started to leave.

“He’s not right, you know,” said Sally Donovan next to him. 

“Excuse me?”

“Sherlock Holmes. There’s something not right with him. He lives for things like this. Gets off on it. It’s sick.”

John opened his mouth and then closed it again. “It’s not generally polite to insult one’s friends,” he settled on.

“Friends?” She snorted. “He doesn’t have friends. He uses people to get what he wants. He’s a master liar and manipulator. I’d stay away from him if I were you.”

John’s hand trembled; he clenched it. “Right. Excuse me.”

Just then, Sherlock shouted his name. John looked over to see one of Barbara’s co-workers, Chris the runner who had just been talking to Sherlock, take off at a sprint. 

Without second thought, John was off, Donovan at his side, weaving in and out of sweaty, colourful bodies. A haze still hung in the air, making it harder to see. John lost sight of Sherlock but kept pace with Donovan, who was quickly going to outpace him. 

“I see him!” she said, panting. “Go left!”

John manoeuvred through a group of people, using his stature to his advantage, and came out right in front of the startled, blue-faced runner. He pivoted to dodge him, then leapt over a small hedge.

“Fuck,” swore John, knowing there was no way he could clear it, even with a running start. The man clearly had hurdles as well as middle-distance running in his athletic repertoire.

He ran around to an opening in the greenery just in time to see Sherlock tackle the man to the ground. Donovan was right behind him. “That’s about enough of that,” John heard her say as he jogged over. 

Sherlock was breathing rather heavily, and he was covered with powder residue, but he smiled as he looked up from where he was strewn across the man’s back.

“Sally,” he said as he caught his breath. “Meet Mr. Chris Hanson, who missed out on the Deputy Headship he thought he deserved and that was instead given to Barbara Ewing. I think if you question him farther you’ll find he had a brief liaison with Ms. Ewing and knew about her allergy. I suspect he has an accomplice as well, someone on the event staff, who held a homemade extinguisher for him at the finish line. I’m sure if you test his clothing, you’ll find evidence of the tainted powder. Mr. Hanson,” finished Sherlock, climbing off him so Donovan could arrest him, “you should have chosen the colour green. It would have been more appropriate.”

***

It was getting dark by the time they finished giving their statements to Anderson and Donovan, but John was still riding the high from the earlier foot chase and his and Sherlock’s adventure. Finally they were free to go, and they walked back to the motorbike through dust-covered grass.

“How do you know her?” he asked.

“She grew up in Burnett Thwaite. We knew each other as children.”

“The town bully, huh?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “We were...playmates...of a sort.”

“Playmates! She hates you!”

“She didn’t always. I wasn’t very kind to her in the end, I suppose. And then she moved to Leeds. She’s bitter,” explained Sherlock. “And she has a right to be. She should have been a CID officer by now, but then the budget got cut, the squad shrank, and she’s stuck in uniform...I think she’d be better off in London, at the Met.” 

John wasn’t paying attention. “You were _playmates_?” he asked incredulously. 

“She was an excellent frog-catcher,” Sherlock said with a wry smile, putting on his helmet. He swung one of his long legs over the bike. “Ready?”

Their ride back to Holmes Hall was considerably slower than the ride into Leeds, and John felt much more comfortable. Darkness fell, and with it, the temperature. He leaned forward, against Sherlock’s back, and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze and the solid presence in front of him. Within an hour they were back home.

They parked the bike in Lestrade’s garage and walked back to the house. It had gone 10pm and the stars were out. Not quite as brilliant as the night sky in the desert, but impressive nonetheless. John found himself stopped somewhere between the garage and the house, looking up.

“Coming?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah. Just.” John pointed. “That’s Cygnus. You don’t see it often because of light pollution.”

Sherlock came back and looked up. “Is it a planet or something?”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t ask questions I know the answers to, John.”

“You don’t know the planets? Basic knowledge of the solar system?”

“It can only hold so much!” Sherlock said loudly, pointing at his head. “Something has to get deleted! Until there’s interstellar murder or galactic poisonings, it’s useless information!”

“I suppose you’ll tell me you don’t know the Earth goes around the Sun, next.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Look. See that bright one there? That’s Venus. And that’s Jupiter, over there. You can see the great red spot with a telescope. Mars is usually bright but not this time of year. And that one? That’s Polaris. It’s called the North Star and it’s used for navigation because…”

“...I know that,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“...it’s aligned with the Earth’s axis at the north pole. It’s kind of a fixed point, something reliable. And there’s Ursa Major. The bear. Some people call it the big dipper.”

They stood there, two dark figures in a dark spring night. There, with the heavens spiralling out above him, John felt grounded, centred. At home.

Eventually he moved to go in. Sherlock stood, gazing up. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

John laughed. “You never noticed?” In the weak light, John observed his friend. Not just saw, but observed. His jacket and jeans were smudged with colour. His curly hair, which he’d promptly fluffed after pulling off his helmet, ruffled in the gentle breeze. Features that John had initially found rather odd-looking -- his eyes, cheekbones, mouth-- had somehow transformed into something of otherworldly beauty. He’d always found Sherlock interesting, but he’d learned so much more about him today, how complex he actually was, how very...human. John looked at his own dust-stained jeans and smiled. Sherlock Holmes had literally brought colour back into his life, and he would be forever grateful. 

They walked back to the house in silence and went in the back entrance.

“Well,” said Sherlock as they stopped by John’s door. “What you did today. That was...good.”

John smiled. “Yeah. You too.” Time stretched out, and John was struck by an odd feeling, like he should invite Sherlock in for a drink, or something. Something _more_.

“How’s the leg?” 

Confused, John looked down and realized that both his hands were free. What had he done with the walking stick?

“You left it at Angelo’s,” supplied Sherlock. “Your limp was psychosomatic, by the way. I don’t think it will trouble you again.”

John continued to stare down, awestruck. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Goodnight, John,” he said formally, and walked down the hall. John watched him go, the strange feeling still there, pooling in his gut.

Sighing, he went into his room, washed the dust from himself in a hot shower, and fell into bed. He fell asleep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the estate that Winnicott Hall is based on is here:  
> http://harewood.org/
> 
> And here are the ruins:  
> http://harewood.org/explore/gardens-and-grounds/the-castle/
> 
> As I have never been there, I have opted to make my own Stately Home. I saw the picture of the castle on an "abandoned places" article on Buzzfeed once and fell in love; then I went to the website and poked around, looking at garden pictures and getting inspiration for the main storyline. Then I saw that Harewood actually had a color run in May sometime, and I thought, what a perfect opportunity to try to do someone harm. It would be so hard to see anything, people all over the place, etc. I wanted to give John a chance to shine as well as provide Sherlock an opportunity to show off, so this seemed the best solution. 
> 
> The powder used in those races is simply cornstarch.


	15. It is time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's libido returns. Thank God.

Chapter 15: It Is Time

Now that Sherlock was officially mobile again, John rarely saw him. The day after their adventure at Winnicott Hall, John heard the motorbike leave before he was even out of bed for the day. He worked at the clinic for the next three days, and by the time the weekend rolled around, he hadn’t seen Sherlock once and found himself missing his company. He sincerely hoped that Sherlock wasn’t getting high somewhere, slipping back into familiar habits. 

Without his new friend around to occupy him, John spent his free time tinkering with his blog, which had suddenly gained a small following. He wrote up ‘A Colourful Case’ and created a link to Sherlock’s website, hoping to generate a few clients for him. 

His afternoons were spent in the secret garden. Now that June had arrived, the areas of the garden John had cleared were blooming in profusion. He had been working along the side of the house and finally turned the corner to begin working on the north wall. John left the garden gate unlocked so that Molly could come and go as she pleased, and judging by the neat and orderly state of the central garden beds, she had put in a good deal of work.

Saturday found John wrestling with masses of overgrown morning glory vines that had completely taken over. His left arm ached from hacking at it with the secateurs for hours. Eventually he made it three quarters of the way down the wall when his clipping revealed a stump. Touching its jagged edges carefully, John knew without a doubt that this must have been _the tree_ , Archibald Holmes’ beloved plum tree, the one Sherlock should have helped prune and that Mycroft hacked down in a fit of grief and rage. 

He stood, then looked around. What had Sherlock’s father hit his head on? Likely the brick pavers around the centre bed, John reckoned. Sherlock had seemed so sure that his father had not fallen by accident, and John was inclined to believe him. A chirp from his friend the robin called him back to the present, and he checked his watch. It was already late afternoon, and he was completely knackered, so he headed inside to freshen up.

After his shower he still felt stiff and sore. The blue rubber therapy band was tucked away in his wardrobe, but he hadn’t touched it for three weeks and wanted to keep it that way. Instead, he grabbed his trunks and headed off for a swim.

Lestrade had been griping about having to maintain the pool since no one used it, so John had taken over the task of checking the chemicals since he seemed to be the only one using it. He liked the space, too, the high, glass ceiling, the quiet lapping of the water, the beautiful mosaic tiles on the floor. 

He changed in a newly renovated cubicle and dived in, swimming lengths until he felt his shoulder loosen. Then he floated on his back and spent some time enjoying the feeling of weightlessness before he realised he was hungry. He climbed out, towelled off. He’d need another shower to wash off the chlorine, but he didn’t feel like getting dressed again. Mrs. Hudson was out with friends anyway, so he figured it was safe to saunter back to his room in just his swimwear. 

He grabbed his clothes from where he’d left them in the changing cubicle, slung his towel over his good shoulder, turned around...and ran directly into Sherlock. Where on earth had he come from?

“Shit,” John swore, startled. 

Sherlock stood there, eyes on John’s ruin of a shoulder. 

John instinctively reached for the towel and pulled it to cover the scar.

“I apologise,” said Sherlock. “I didn’t mean to catch you unawares.”

“It’s fine,” said John.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment. John wondered if Sherlock would come straight out and ask to see what was left of his shoulder, but he didn’t. How long Sherlock had been in the pool area? Was he seeking company and didn’t know how to ask for it? He clearly was not possessed of the most basic social skills; either that, or he chose to ignore them most of the time. Maybe he’d wanted to swim, too, but felt uncomfortable sharing the pool with John. Was he being polite and keeping his distance, offering John some privacy in light of his injury? Whatever the reason, John found he wasn’t honestly bothered that Sherlock had been lurking. Next time he went swimming, John decided he’d simply ask Sherlock if he’d like to come along.

“Where have you been all week?” John asked, pushing past Sherlock, who still hadn’t mastered the concept of personal space. 

“Busy,” Sherlock replied. 

“All right,” said John when he realised Sherlock wasn’t going to elaborate. “I’m going to make a bite to eat.” Then, “Would you like to join me?”

“Ate this morning,” said Sherlock, who suddenly started unbuttoning his shirt, completely unabashed. John didn’t know whether to look away. He kept his chin up and stared somewhere past Sherlock’s head.

“But chess later?” Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt and draped it over a lounge chair before toeing off his shoes.

“Sure,” said John, “see you then.” He made a hasty retreat as Sherlock reached for his belt-buckle. 

He heard a splash when he reached the door. His hand on the handle, he had to resist looking back. Had Sherlock jumped in completely starkers? John rolled his eyes. The man was mad, he was sure of it.

***

As it turned out, they played Cluedo instead. They sat in the library, the windows thrown open to let in the cool night air, drank Glenfiddich, and had a playful argument about whether or not the victim killed himself. Sherlock declared the entire game illogical, and after two whiskies apiece, they had abandoned the original characters in favour of more interesting versions of their own devising. Sherlock turned Miss Scarlett into a drag queen, and John established that Colonel Mustard was a war criminal. 

Sherlock’s cool, aloof demeanour had slipped somewhat. John felt somewhat proud to share these private moments with a person who, as Mrs. Hudson said, didn’t have friends. As far as John knew, he might be Sherlock’s only friend. Friendship didn’t come intuitively to him, it seemed, or if it had, he’d ‘deleted’ it or something in favour of logical reasoning. Either way, John felt he’d found a kindred spirit in the man. He didn’t give much stock to notions of fate or destiny, but he couldn’t help feeling like he’d found something he’d been missing, something he had waited a long time for. He’d grown to care very deeply for Sherlock, and while Sherlock still didn’t quite function within the normal parameters of any other man John had ever known, John thought...or felt, rather...that Sherlock felt the same. Maybe it was some stupid romantic notion. Maybe it was a figment of his imagination or a manifestation of his own lonely heart. But when Sherlock finally declared Professor Plum (a morally dubious scientist devoted to doing nefarious things with the Higgs-Boson particle) the murderer and declared himself a superior intellectual being, the way he looked at John for confirmation of the fact, the way his eyes seemed to say “validate me”, confirmed to John that he had somehow insinuated himself into Sherlock’s sphere, that he now had a place, albeit small, among the myriad facets of Sherlock’s mind palace. 

It had gone 1am before John finally bid goodnight to Sherlock and went back to his room. He was still slightly warm and loose from the whisky; his bed was warm and comfortable, and he was asleep immediately.

***

He dreamed.

He dreamed he was back in Winnicott Hall’s formal gardens, except the manicured topiaries had all grown wild. Impossibly large asiatic lilies lined the walks, perfuming the air, their petals open, pistils and stamens protruding from deep, pink centres; tall purple iris stood guard proudly around lush rose bushes. Up ahead, the fountain beckoned. 

The statue of Theseus stood guard, sword drawn, in the centre of the fountain. John followed the path around to the front, where John could see the hero in his full glory, the muscles of his chest and abdomen sculpted in bronze, his penis and bollocks unabashedly on display between muscled thighs. John looked up at the hero of Athens, who blinked back at him, bronze lids opening and shutting slowly as if frozen from years of disuse. The statue seemed to inhale, then lowered his sword arm, which had been raised to the sky, and pointed. “Go,” he seemed to say. 

So John went. He walked down several paths that would have fit well in _Alice in Wonderland_. Vaguely he knew he was dreaming, but it wasn’t a threatening dream -- vivid, yes, but not terrifying like his nightmares, those soul-sucking terrors that rose up from his unconscious like some monstrous, pale, surfacing fish. There was a window here, an opportunity to wake up. He ignored it and continued on, curious as to where the path would lead. 

Then, as dreams often do, the entire scene shifted, and he was no longer in a garden at all, but flying, fast, a machine roaring in his ears. No, not a machine. An engine. A motorbike engine. Yes, he was on a motorbike, but he wasn’t driving. He wasn’t in control, nor could he see. His blindness wasn’t unnerving, however. It was liberating. He held on tight as he tipped to the right and the left, as the wind blew through his hair. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. The bike gained speed, and he clung tighter, laughing. The body in front of him was warm and solid. And maybe speaking? He couldn’t quite tell. Together with the sound of the engine, a human voice, deep and sonorous, speaking soothing nonsense.

The road was bumpy. They bounced up and down, the movement causing sweet friction, and desire, long-forgotten desire, blossomed in his groin. “Hold tight,” said the voice-rumble. “Move with me.”

“Yes,” thought John, “I will, I want to,” and then there was Theseus among the lilies, bronze cock erect and gleaming. “It is time,” said Theseus, and…

...and John gasped, waking himself. He sat up in bed, panting, and realised, with shock and a profound sense of relief, that he had an aching erection. He took a few shaking breaths that were more half choked-off sobs than anything before kicking off his pants.

The dream still lingered, the feeling of being pressed close against another body still fresh in his mind. Without a second thought he rolled over and jammed a pillow underneath him. The urge to rut, to move his hips and fuck was so strong that he just went with it, humping the pillow like a teenager. He clenched his buttocks tightly, pushing up and in and not even caring that there was no partner with him, no warm skin to hold, no tight heat to pump into. It had been so long...months and months of absolutely nothing, no sexual desire whatsoever, that it overwhelmed him and before he knew it he was coming, spurting into the pillow as he held himself up with his arms and pushed his pelvis in, the roar of his blood a motorbike rumble in his ears.

“Fuck,” he said as he collapsed. He twitched through several aftershocks, as though his body were coming back online after a long, cold silence. And then he did cry, great sobs, tears running down his face as he rejoiced. 

Emotionally and physically exhausted, he fell back to sleep, face-down, still clutching his pillows tightly.

***

He awoke in the morning with another erection -- and a bit stuck to his sheets. John ran himself a bath and spent a good hour getting to know himself again. He delighted in all of the sensations he’d forgotten he loved: palming his balls, gently manipulating his foreskin, thumbing the frenulum, watching the glans poke out of the circle of his fingers as he thrust into his hand. Firm strokes and soft caresses, pressure on the perineum, a fingertip fluttering against and then just inside the anus. He savoured the building pressure, the tightening in his pelvis, the way his legs shook and his buttocks clenched as he grew closer to release. He thought of nothing and no one, simply enjoying the sensations, remembering how much he could enjoy pleasuring himself.

When it was time, he watched himself come, saw the pearly semen fly from the slit and land on his wet and shining chest and belly. 

Finally sated, he rinsed off and climbed out of the bath to see himself naked in the mirror. He’d gained some muscle, and his arms and face were rather tan again from working out of doors. His cock, now flaccid, hung between his legs in its nest of red-gold pubic hair. The scar on his leg, which had troubled him so much before, was, of course, still there, but now its faded pink arrow seemed to say, “Right there, love. That is where the action is.” 

There’s something about a man who has been recently sexually satisfied. 

Mrs. Hudson spent the entire breakfast trying to puzzle out why John was so chipper all of a sudden, and John assured her that he was just pleased because he had never had such exceptionally tasty bubble and squeak before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had a blast learning about the names of gardening tools. A "hoe" in the US is not a "hoe" in the UK; basically nothing is the same. "Secateurs" are pruning clippers. 
> 
> You may have noticed the rating has gone up. Haven't decided if this fic will get explicit yet, but there will be some sexytimes, for sure.
> 
> I also made a typo that Canola Crush found - I wrote "the hero in his full gory." It made CC laugh, as she said, "for millennia". What a difference an "l" makes.


	16. A Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally gets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to both of my wonderful betas for their work on this chapter. And for all of you readers who keep leaving the most wonderful, encouraging notes. I am so appreciative! This has been so much fun to write...and so much longer than I originally planned!

Chapter 16: A Revelation

 

On Monday morning, John wasn’t needed at the surgery until 11am. He awoke feeling more vigourous (and horny) than he had in a long time, so he got up early, enjoyed a nice shower (and a leisurely wank) and rode his bike into the village to grab a pastry and coffee from Marjorie Gant’s bakery. He sat enjoying the sun at a small metal table outside, when Mr. Chapman, who owned the antiques shop, hobbled up, unlocked the door, and began his morning ritual of sweeping his front step.

John had been occasionally dragged to antique shops by his aunt as a child, and he’d hated their musty smell: a combination of cat urine and mould spores. To his child’s eye, everything had been useless and boring. Now, as an adult, John found he liked ducking into Mr. Chapman’s. It didn’t have that particular odour, either; instead it smelled of old books, like brittle paper or wool, lemon polish, and glass cleaner. John found the owner himself interesting: having lived in Burnett Thwaite his whole life, Mr. Chapman knew just about everything about the village and the people who lived there. He opened his shop three days a week and habitually wore a bow tie and cardigan combination of which John wholeheartedly approved. 

John finished his pain au chocolat and decided to say hello. 

Mr. Chapman waved and propped the broom up beside the front door. 

“Dr. Watson!” he said affably. “Do come in. I’ve got something you might find interesting.”

John ducked into the shop and patted the head of an old wooden horse that had somehow lost its merry-go-round companions. Mr. Chapman called her “Bessie”, and she stood guard next to a small display of Mr. Campbell’s local honey.

“Went to Edinburgh last week, up to see my grandson. He’s thirty now, can you believe that? Ha! Anyway, I found a nice little shop up there and got myself some books.” 

John hurried to help him with a cardboard box full of old textbooks, which he set on the front counter. Mr. Chapman climbed onto his stool and began to lift out the volumes with his large, gnarled hands. “All of these are outdated,” he said. “I love to go back and read them, especially the old history books. It makes me feel old,” he wheeze-laughed. “Makes me wonder what they’ll think up when I’m gone.”

“You’ve got plenty of time, Mr. Chapman,” said John, smiling. 

“Nonsense, lad,” insisted the shopkeeper. “I’m 89. I suppose I still have a bit of a spring in my step, though. I’d say it’s from clean living but that’d be a lie. Now, here. This is it.” He pulled forth an old volume entitled _Anatomy of the Human Body_. The black cloth cover was battered and faded, but the gold lettering was still fairly crisp and clear. The date read 1895. “Now,” said Mr. Chapman, “it’s not a first edition or anything, but it’s still highly collectable.”

“Gray’s Anatomy,” murmured John. He set it aside thoughtfully as Mr. Chapman continued to empty the box. Something fluttered out from the last book and fell under the countertop. The top of it poked out where John could reach it, so he bent down and picked up what looked to be a folded map of some kind. Upon inspection, it turned out to be a student’s map of the periodic table. 

 

“What did this fall out of?” he asked. 

“Oh, just an old chemistry textbook. Came with the lot. Useless, really. Some overeager young lad wrote all over most of the pages.” He handed the book to John. 

John handled the tattered tome carefully. “I know someone who might like this,” he said.

“Yes, I do believe he would,” said Mr. Chapman. 

John looked at him questioningly.

“You mean Sherlock, that is? Yes, that’s just the kind of thing he’d like. Or would have liked, a long time ago.”

“You know him, then?”

“Of course. I know everyone. Quiet little thing. Well, he was, until he grew tall and learned how to argue. Then you couldn’t shut the boy up. He’d come in with his father sometimes when he was little. I heard through the grapevine that he’s back at the house. Been in some trouble, most like.”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

Mr. Chapman shook his head. A tortoiseshell cat sauntered out from the back and jumped up on his owner’s lap. Mr. Chapman stroked it gently. “Pity. He was a bright young man. Unusual, but bright.”

John eyed the copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_. “How much for the anatomy book?”

“For you? £300.”

 

John whistled and shook his head. “£200.”

“£250.”

“£225.”

“Ooh, that’s a hard bargain, Doctor. I’ll tell you what: buy one of those jars of Samuel’s honey, too, and I’ll let you have it...and the periodic table...for ₤235.”

John smiled. “Done.”

“Go and get me one of those now,” said Mr. Chapman, and John retrieved a jar of the golden liquid from its display. “Crusty bugger yells at me every day about eating it myself and forgetting to pay. Helps with allergies, you know.” He winked. “Sherlock used to love the stuff. Archibald bought a jar nearly every week.”

“What was he like?” John ventured.

Mr. Chapman frowned, reminiscing. “Kind. Busy, always pottering around in that garden of his. Wore a flower, always, right here.” He patted his chest. “Loved youngsters. Even before he had his own children, I remember that. Kids just loved him, too. His wife, she had the brains, always working on something. Maths, I think. Sometimes he’d read to the kids down at the library when they were here in the summer. All the children in town knew him. Followed him around like the Pied Piper. Just ask Marjorie. Her son, Henry, and Ernie Owen’s son, Adam. Best of friends those two, always tagging after Mr. Holmes. He really should have been a teacher. He had the knack.” 

“He sounds like he was a great man.”

“He was,” said Mr. Chapman, dislodging the cat and standing up to walk John out. “It’s odd how things happen.” He licked his lips and swallowed a few times. “Do you have children, Doctor?”’

“No.”

The shopkeeper grimaced. “It’s not easy being a father. Sometimes you can do everything right, but still not be what your children need. The Holmes boys took after their mother,” he said. “Do tell Sherlock I said hello. Give him that honey. Sweeten him up a bit.”

John bid Mr. Chapman goodbye, tucked the books into his backpack, and spent the entire train ride to Leeds wondering what happened to Archibald Holmes. 

 

***

John returned home from work to find Sherlock tinkering in what used to be Mycroft’s office. 

“So what’s today’s research?” John asked as he set his bag down and settled himself into a leather chair. 

“Glitter,” said Sherlock, shutting his laptop. “Exceptional forensic evidence. I just purchased an eBay lot of 48 eyeshadows in ‘excellent used condition’. Rather dodgy, selling used cosmetics, but they will suit my purposes well. Do you know there’s a distinct difference between glitter and shimmer?”

John, amused, shook his head in the negative.

“Glitter is tiny pieces of cut up foil, whereas shimmer is mica. Cosmetics contain both. I’d like to test the various properties of shimmer and glitter in both cheap and professional-grade cosmetics and see what traces they would leave from skin-to-skin contact, such as a casual embrace or a sexual encounter.” 

“Oh no,” said John after Sherlock looked at him with a glint in his eye. “You’re not making me up.”

“Don’t be silly. I’d make myself up. I just need someone to rub against.”

To his mortification, John’s face instantly heated. He heard Sherlock chuckle.

“Oh,” said John, trying to find something else to talk about that didn’t involve rubbing. “I got you something today.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out the chemistry text. “Met with Mr. Chapman in the morning.” He laughed to himself. “I actually bought an antique copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_ from him. God, I’m a sucker. Anyway, he had this and I thought you’d like it.” 

Sherlock stared at the book, eyebrows drawn together, before crossing to John and taking it in his big hands. 

“It’s a gift,” clarified John. 

Sherlock turned it over, opened the front cover, closed it, and looked at John. His mouth opened and closed again.

“You’re supposed to say thank you,” prompted John.

“It’s old,” he said instead.

“Well, yes. I thought you would get a kick out of looking through all the outdated material. There’s this as well.” John pulled the jar of honey from his backpack. “Mr. Chapman said you’d like it.”

Sherlock took the jar as well. “You bought these for me.”

John chuckled, standing up and shouldering his backpack. “Yes, you idiot. It’s what people do. What friends do.”

“Friends.”

“Yes, Sherlock. We’re friends. Good friends. I, um, think. Hope.” He cleared his throat, having found the clarification slightly awkward. “Now don’t feel obligated to reciprocate, please. I just...thought you’d like it, that’s all.”

“I do. Like it.”

“Well, don’t think too hard about it. You ought to go visit Mr. Chapman some time. I think he’d like to see you.”

Sherlock nodded. John could almost see the great wheels of his enormous brain trying to process something as simple as a token of affection. Sad, really. 

“Yes. I will.” 

“Well, I’m starving. If you’re eating, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Sherlock straightened up and held the chemistry book to his chest. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. 

“See, there you go,” John replied, smiling. “Not so hard, after all.”

That night, as he tried to fall asleep, he thought of Sherlock’s glitter experiment. John knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about. How many times had he found shiny stuff nestled into the pores of his face, microscopic prisms that had danced on a woman’s eyelids and cheekbones. He liked a woman barefaced, without the artifice, but there was something to be said for the allure of shimmery candyfloss lip polish, the allusion of lips plump and painted with saliva...or come. Of course Sherlock would be curious. John knew that men explored makeup as well. He’d seen men in drag, but never thought the exaggerated features were attractive. He thought of Sherlock fully made up, with teal-blue eyeshadow and bright coral lips. The thought made him laugh. But no, Sherlock would probably be good at it, like he was at everything he actually put his mind to. He’d make up his eyes, then, rimming them with dark kohl. Maybe something shiny on the ridge of those cheekbones. Clear lip polish, with tiny flakes of glitter. John could picture it now: he’d come home and find Sherlock looking like some high-fashion runway model about to hit the catwalk in an avant-garde art performance. “I’m wearing three types of shimmer and four different glitters,” he’d say clinically. “Now, hold still. I’m going to rub my face on you.”

John laughed out loud, nervously, and rolled over. Actually, the thought of someone rubbing their face on him seemed rather erotic. He imagined a scenario: something dirty and unsafe. A club, then. Toilet stall. Back against the cold metal. Someone kneeling. Not sucking, not yet, but rubbing his cock all over their face, mouthing it, breathing on it, kissing his groin, leaving traces of fairy-dust on the soft, smooth skin above his pubic hair while a rhythmic bass line thumped through the wall.

When it was over, he realised that he’d masturbated nearly twice a day since his dick had decided to work again. _Catching up for lost time_ , he told himself as he pulled off his vest and wiped himself. He owed himself four months’ worth of orgasms, and if it meant he behaved like his fifteen-year-old self, so be it. No harm done.

 

***

 

Sherlock was forced to relinquish his makeshift lab when in the second week in June, Mycroft Holmes returned to his family home with a briefcase full of papers, his assistant Anthea, and an estate agent. 

John, though curious, stayed clear of the office while the Holmes brothers decided what should be done with the family estate. He eventually got the scoop from a teary-eyed Mrs. Hudson, who told him that Holmes Hall would be offered for sale at the end of July with a guide price of £ 13,000,000. 

Before they could sell, several repairs had to be completed, parts of the building needed new wiring, and teams of tradesmen soon arrived to finish restoring and renovating the lower level of the east wing. 

With Mycroft’s permission, Lestrade hired a few men and women from the village to help with the grounds, and John found it harder to slip away into the garden. He still managed, though, and between that and working at the surgery, he found himself comfortably busy. He knew he should probably start looking for a flat in Leeds, but the idea made him uncomfortable, so he procrastinated. 

Now that his libido had decided it was no longer dormant, John decided it was high time he started dating again. He wasn’t exactly sure where to start. Internet dating? Not really his thing. He felt too old for nightclubs. There was always old reliable, the pub, and so when Mike invited him out for a trivia night, John agreed, hinting that maybe Mike could bring a single friend along. 

John was dressed (the well-fitting jeans and polo shirt courtesy of Mycroft) and ready to go when Sherlock burst into his room without knocking. “I can’t THINK!” Sherlock yelled as he flung himself into John’s spare chair, a habit he’d taken to that John could not seem to get him to stop. “There’s this horrible noisy thing that sands floors and some dreadful woman keeps floating around taking pictures and wants to redecorate my room. It’s still _my_ room! Ugh. I need a case. Get me a case, John.”

“Check the blog,” said John as he tucked his wallet into his back pocket. Since he’d written up the case about the cat and their adventure at Winnicott Hall, Sherlock had solved three new crimes. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had told half the village about John’s blog, and the inhabitants of Burnett Thwaite must be more internet-savvy than John had thought, for nearly overnight his blog erupted with hits. Sherlock’s stagnant blog began to see some steady traffic, and people began posting inquiries, most of which the detective (rudely) declined, citing them as boring. He devised an interest-rating scale, and decided anything over a 4 was worth leaving the house for. Sherlock told John that he’d even had some business cards made up and a box of them delivered to Sgt. Sally Donovan, just in case she needed his assistance. 

“Already checked it,” Sherlock said. “Nothing new. And I simply have to get out of here.” He bounced to his feet again, eyeing John. “I see you’re going out.”

“Yeah. Quiz night at Mike’s local.”

“And you’re...how does one say...on the pull?”

“Am not.”

“You put gel in your hair and you have spearmint tic-tacs in your pocket.”

John smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind if I met someone,” he said, looking down, somewhat embarrassed. When he looked up again, Sherlock was worrying his lower lip. “You’re welcome to come,” John continued. 

Sherlock made a face. “Ugh. Trivia. I’d rather stare at the wall.”

“Suit yourself. I’m sure Mike and his wife wouldn’t mind. And I’m sure we could make use of you.”

Sherlock considered. “Are the chips any good?”

“Excellent, I’m sure. You want to come?”

“Give me five minutes. We’ll ride.”

John was waiting at the motorbike, looking impatiently at his watch, when he saw Sherlock come out the back pool entryway. If John thought he had cleaned up well before, it was nothing compared to the way he looked now. John couldn’t quite pinpoint what he’d done...something with his hair, maybe. Or maybe it was the way he was dressed, in a close-fitting, black shirt and dangerously tight, low-slung jeans. Whatever it was, Sherlock looked both younger and scarier. If the effect was to attract, it would work. 

Sherlock shrugged into his leather jacket and put on his helmet before slinging a long leg over the bike (how he managed with such grace in jeans like that, John would never know). 

The evening was pleasant and warm, and John enjoyed the ride into the city. He could faintly smell whatever aftershave Sherlock had applied whenever Sherlock shifted, could feel the heat of his body through the leather. John hoped it wouldn’t make his friend too uncomfortable, being in a pub with strangers. It’s not that Sherlock didn’t know how to behave in social situations. He did. He just chose not to. John had no idea why Sherlock decided to make an exception in his solitary life to include him, but he was pleased that Sherlock did. 

They arrived just as the MC was announcing teams; John and Sherlock took their awaiting chairs. Mike quickly introduced his wife, Margaret (call me Maggie), Jenny from the micro lab, and Sanjay, who worked in paediatric oncology. John sat next to Jenny, whom he noticed right away was not wearing a wedding ring--good man, Mike. Sherlock shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, for which John was thankful.

The pub itself was close to the University of Leeds and drew a younger crowd, although there was a family of parents and several teens seated in the far corner. John wondered why Mike liked such a trendy spot until he saw the menu. The Prickly Thistle (Yorkshire’s third-best pub, known for its eclectic menu and innovative cocktail list, according to the _Northern Express_ ) boasted an extensive range of interesting bar food. Sherlock promptly ordered a double order of chips infused with truffle oil and tossed with parmesan, much to John’s surprise. 

They played the first round (‘Pop classics of the 1990s’) before John managed to get to the bar. He took an instant dislike to the barman. Tall, blond, and fit, the man working the bar exuded a type of cool confidence John distrusted. Plus, he’d made John wait longer than he should have, and John didn’t like to be kept waiting. Sure, he wasn’t suave or trendy, but he was a soldier and he knew that he could mop the floor with the smug barman’s face if he had to. He locked eyes with the man as he collected his pint of Stella and Jenny’s glass of Chardonnay and tried to convey as much to him. 

John had a good time. His monkfish ravioli was excellent, and he and Jenny hit it off; he was thrilled to see her respond and flirt back to his subtle advances. He looked in every once and a while on Sherlock, who turned out to be rather helpful on some of the more obscure categories but knew nothing about popular culture (Adele who?) or politics (Was there an election recently? Who won?). For the most part, Sherlock ate his chips and sat quietly, people-watching. John thought he was playing a game of deduction in his own mind that was far more interesting to him than pub trivia questions. But he didn’t seem uncomfortable or too terribly bored, so John felt free to continue his flirtation. Jenny was pretty and clever and funny. Maybe he’d get her phone number. Maybe, if he were incredibly lucky, she’d invite him home with her...

They were handing out cards for the last picture round (“Queens of England”) when John noticed Sherlock was no longer with them. “Lily Savage!” shouted Mike. John had reached that point where he was pleasantly buzzing, when all jokes were funny and most women looked lovely. A happy place. Maggie pointed at a picture and yelled, “Danny La Rue!” Maybe Sherlock had gone to use the loo. He wouldn’t have left him here, would he? Had he deduced that John would head home with Jenny? Maybe Sherlock could be useful for finding a date after all... 

He scanned the pub. And his happiness suddenly soured.

There was Sherlock, leaning up against the bar suggestively, speaking quietly with that dick of a barman. It wasn’t a Sherlock John had ever seen, either. No, Sherlock had transformed. His entire posture had relaxed. He had a curl to his lip John hadn’t seen before, and he kept running his hands through his hair, touching his own arms, thighs. John’s gut roiled when he realised what was obviously happening: Sherlock was… _seducing_ the barman.

John’s face grew hot, ashamed at himself for feeling whatever it was he was feeling, and turned away. Sherlock’s business was Sherlock’s business. After all, if John was attempting to find a romantic partner, why shouldn’t Sherlock? Still, something about it turned his stomach. Not _that_ guy, some smug, fit, tattooed punk who thought he was better than everyone else! The barman said something to a co-worker, smiled lewdly at Sherlock, and together the two of them disappeared out the back.

“You all right, John?” asked Mike. “Look a bit sick there.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, attempting a smile. “Great.” His attention went back to the bar. 

The picture round began. John missed the category, only vaguely hearing the people at his table call out names. “Barbara Windsor!” “Diana Dors!” “Dawn French….ooh, who’s that one? The one who was mates with Princess Anne.” 

Jenny touched his arm and laughed. “Valerie Singleton, right John?” she asked. John hadn’t a clue what’d she was talking about.

“Sorry, what’s the category again?”

“Classic Birds of the British Isles,” said Mike.

Birds? Only one came to mind. “Um, the robin,” he said, standing up. “Excuse me. Need the loo.”

John’s hand shook as he made his way to the back of the pub, his feet carrying him steadily onward although he knew he had no reason to interfere with Sherlock’s private life. It just seemed off. And God help him, if Sherlock were exchanging sex for drugs, John would bloody well throttle both of them right there on the spot.

“Hey mate, that’s for employees only,” said the other barman. John gave him a look that spoke volumes and he backed off, raising his hands in a placating gesture. 

John cracked his knuckles before reaching for the door. He inched it open as quietly as possible. Just to look, just to see. Sherlock and the man were talking close together midway down the alley. John exhaled a shaky breath, so very relieved that he didn’t interrupt anything sexual, for if he’d seen Sherlock on his knees for that man, he probably would have vomited.

“You can’t prove it,” he heard the barman say. 

“You’re very cautious,” Sherlock replied. “I can tell that much. You’re very good with slight of hand. A magician.”

“Whatever. If you’re not interested, then I’d better be getting back to work.”

John considered making his way back to the table when he heard the barman exclaim, “Hey, arsehole, you nicked my mobile!”

John was out the door at the first sound of a scuffle. He watched, amazed, as Sherlock bobbed and ducked. He fought well. He had obviously trained in some type of martial arts, and while the barman had significantly more upper body muscle mass than Sherlock did, he had yet to land a debilitating blow. John aimed to keep it that way. 

Sherlock looked up and saw John, momentarily losing his concentration. The barman landed a right hook right on Sherlock’s cheekbone; the skin split. Sherlock touched it, his mouth open in shock. 

“Right then,” said the barman, shaking out his knuckles. He turned and saw John. “Oh, look,” he laughed. “You.”

“John,” said Sherlock. “I was trying to inform Andrew here that drugging people’s drinks is not only illegal, but rather immoral as well.” 

John frowned as Andrew approached him. “Excuse me,” said Andrew. John didn’t move but stood, stalwart, blocking the door. 

“Sherlock?” he asked.

“I’m afraid he has been a rather awful barman.”

John looked up into Andrew’s face. “Is that so.”

“Move,” said Andrew.

John didn’t.

Andrew tried a different tactic. “Look, it’s nothing that has any lasting effects or anything. It’s totally safe. Just to help a bloke out sometimes. Like you. That pretty brunette you’re with? She’s out of your league. I’ll tell you what: how ‘bout one on the house? I usually charge 20 quid. Should be easy for you then. And if you want, I can arrange it so she won’t even remember. How does that sound?”

John clenched his hand again. 

“Unless it’s not her you’re interested in.” Andrew’s mouth curled into an ugly smile. “Wouldn’t have figured you for the type, but if it’s that one you’re interested in…” --he jerked his head in Sherlock’s direction-- “...you don’t even need my services. He’ll give it to you just for the high, I’d reckon. Now move aside, shorty,” he said, grasping John’s shoulders to physically move him out of the way.

Andrew didn’t even see it coming. There was one distinct advantage of being smaller than an assailant, and that was generally that they anticipated their opponent to be of the same size: they reached in a certain way, expected limbs to be where they were not. John slipped his arms up and under Andrew’s, knocking them off his shoulders, before headbutting him right in the nose. Shocked, Andrew stepped back before attempting the same move that had bloodied Sherlock’s cheek. John grabbed his arm instead, swept his feet out from under him, and held on as Andrew’s own weight dislocated his own shoulder. 

“Fuck you,” Andrew spat from where he’d landed on the ground. “You fucking broke my arm.”

“No, I didn’t,” said John. “Dislocated it rather badly, though.”

Panting, John looked up at Sherlock, who was smiling, his eyebrows raised in surprised admiration. 

“Next time,” said John, adrenaline still high, stepping around the moaning barman to see to his friend. “Call the police, you utter berk. What on earth were you thinking? Going after him like that yourself?”

“Who says I didn’t call the police?” said Sherlock. He nodded to the entrance of the alley just as two uniformed officers -- one of which was Sally Donovan -- ran into the alley. 

John shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Damn you,” he said affectionately to Sherlock. “Next time, let me help you. Now, let’s see about that cheek.”

***

 

Sherlock only fussed a bit at John’s insistence that he hold a plastic bag of ice to his face as they worked through the police proceedings. A quick glance at Andrew’s phone and the contents of his wallet gave the officers everything they needed for an arrest. As Sherlock had deduced, Andrew worked alone, having added the drug to a specially marked bottle of grenadine syrup used to sweeten cocktails and a homemade lemon-flavoured sugar used to rim glasses. The quiz had ended sometime after John’s headbutt, so everyone was ushered out. Forensics said they’d look at the bar more closely in the morning. Sgt Donovan packed a now-silent Andrew into her patrol car, assuring him he wouldn’t be seeing the inside of a pub for a very long time. 

John had developed a pounding headache by the time all was said and done (headbutting perhaps was not the best idea), and it was nearly 1am before they headed back to Holmes Hall. He was exhausted and feeling emotionally adrift. He held on tight to Sherlock as they rode, afraid that he would fall asleep and topple off the bike. He had been so concerned, worried almost to the point of sickness at the thought of Sherlock being romantically involved with someone, and he had felt so fiercely protective, righteously furious when Sherlock’s cheek split open. 

John closed his eyes, rested his head against Sherlock’s back. Listened to the sound of the engine, its rumble and purr. Felt his body lean with Sherlock’s as they wound between the moors. He thought about the feel of Sherlock’s face in his hands as he inspected the bit of wounded skin, how he wanted to push that tangle of curly hair out of the way so he could press a kiss to his forehead. He thought about the close kinship he felt with the man, the way he felt alive again. And then there was that dream. His heart picked up speed and he felt blood pool in his groin even as they drove along in the dark. Oh, Sherlock.

He dug into his jeans pocket where Jenny had written her phone number on a serviette. He held it in his hand for a moment, then opened his fingers and let the rushing wind take it. He wouldn’t be needing it after all.


	17. What He Needs

**Chapter 17: What He Needs**

 

John slept late and woke up starving. He was on his second bowl of cornflakes when Mycroft sauntered in. He’d rolled his shirtsleeves up to accommodate for the hot weather, but was otherwise dressed in finely tailored trousers and waistcoat. John wondered if the man even owned a pair of shorts. 

“I see that you had an interesting evening last night. How is your head?”

John ignored the intrusion of his privacy and ate the last few bites as quickly as he could. 

“I’m informed Sherlock did a bit of amateur police work,” he continued. Mrs. Hudson had picked up some pastries at Mrs. Gant’s bakery in town, and Mycroft was eyeing the bag.

“He’s no amateur, you know that. And if you want to talk to him, I’m sure you know where his room is.” John got up and rinsed his bowl.

Mycroft gave the pastries one final longing glance before sitting down at the table opposite where John had been. “No, actually, I was hoping to speak with you. I find you curious, John. It’s been years since my brother has taken a personal interest in another person.”

“Taken a personal interest?”

“You’ve become...friends.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It’s unusual. Although, I must admit, not unwelcome.” A pause. “You care for him.”

“Of course I do,” John replied, hoping that he was revealing nothing of his romantic interest in Sherlock. That sure as hell was _not_ Mycroft’s business.

“I care for my brother as well,” said Mycroft, sounding sincere. “Although he attracts dangerous people.”

“You think I’m dangerous?”

“No, Dr. Watson. I _know_ you are.”

John laughed aloud. 

“I’m heading back to London today,” said Mycroft. “Please proceed with caution.”

_What the fuck?_ thought John. 

“Right,” he said, and made his escape.

It was only later, as he was getting dressed to go out gardening, that he thought that maybe Mycroft knew John loved Sherlock long before he’d actually known for himself. Maybe he’d been given the green light, the “go-ahead” from the older brother. Or maybe the more likely scenario: it was just Mycroft being Mycroft. John shook his head, trying to clear it. Holmeses. Mysterious creatures, the both of them.

 

***

 

John was so intent on picking aphids off of Sherlock’s roses that he didn’t notice Molly slip into the garden until she was directly behind him.

“Jesus!” he swore, toppling over from where he had been crouching. “Molly, for God’s sake!”

“Sorry! Sorry. I called your name.”

John took a deep breath to slow down his racing heart. “They’ve got...bugs…” he said. 

“I know. Saw them when I was last here, so I brought these.” She reached into her bag and brought out a small, clear plastic bin. “Two-spot ladybirds. You can buy them on the internet.”

John watched with interest as Molly set down her things and crouched next to him. “They’ll never bloom if these aphids suck all the juices out of them.” She opened the box and captured a ladybird on her finger. It climbed to the top of her index finger, paused, lifted its wings, and took flight. 

“I think if I put this under the rose bushes, they’ll figure it out. They’re supposed to love to eat aphids. In the meantime, this should help.” She brought out a spray bottle from her bag. “It’s a bit of oil, washing up liquid, and bicarbonate of soda with water. My mum always used it. It tastes bad to them, so they stop their nibbling. You really don’t want to use a commercial pesticide if you don’t have to.”

“Thanks, Molly.” John watched as a ladybird flew from the tray and landed on a glossy, dark green rose leaf. “I really hope it blooms,” he said. “It’s almost there, as far as I can tell. I’ve tried a few things. Epsom salts, cow manure, composted banana peel. But Lestrade says they always get this far and then the buds just wither up and fall off.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

“Ask who what?”

“Sherlock. Ask him what to do about them. They’re his roses. He _made_ them.”

“It seems too...I don’t know. Personal, somehow.”

“Well, he’ll either answer you or he won’t. No harm done there. He likes you, John.” 

John tried to ignore the sad but true implication: Sherlock liked him more than he liked Molly. More than he liked anyone else, according to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. It filled John with a sense of wonder and pride, but also made him feel uncomfortable. He might not like people, but many people _did_ gravitate towards Sherlock, in spite of his personality quirks, bad habits, and frankly atrocious manners. 

“Maybe.”

Molly took an elastic from her wrist and tied her hair back. “What’s the plan for today?” she asked. 

John took his time standing -- her appearance had given him quite a fright and now his leg was acting up -- and led her to the area he’d been working on near the stump of the plum tree. He’d cleared the area completely, and had begun loosening the soil. “I thought I’d plant these here.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of forget-me-not seeds. He handed them to Molly.

Molly looked sombre, turning over the packet to read the instructions printed on the back. “I think it’s just the thing,” she said. “It’s a little late in the season, but they’ll still grow. Have you planted seeds before?”

“Not since I was a kid. In an egg box, no less.”

“I’ll show you how.” 

Together they carefully sowed the seeds around the stump, poking holes with their fingers in the freshly-tilled, fragrant earth, inserting the little black seeds, and gently tamping the soil down on top of them. 

“You’ll have to water them rather a lot at first if we don’t get daily rain,” said Molly, taking off her gardening gloves and wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. “But they should do well here. And they self-seed, so they’ll come back again and again...even when we’re gone.”

John regarded her closely; Molly was really beautiful in her own right: deep brown eyes, turned-up nose, expressive mouth. Her skin was lovely, smooth and flushed from the afternoon heat. He was glad for her company and truly wished her the best. 

“How’s your grandmother?” he asked as they rested.

“Dying,” said Molly. “It won’t be much longer.”

“What’ll you do after?”

“Well, when they sell this place, I’d like...I’d really like to go back to London. Get my MRCP qualification, and then who knows? It’s funny, you’ll laugh, but I’ve always wanted to work at Barts.”

“Why would I laugh? It’s a good hospital. You’ll make an excellent pathologist.”

“You’re just saying that.” She looked down and rubbed dirt off one knee.

“No, really. I mean it. You can use me as a reference if you’d like. I should introduce you to my friend Mike Stamford. He’s at Jimmy’s. Might be able to pull a few strings for you. He knows everyone.”

She looked up, her large, brown eyes shining. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m really going to miss this place. What’s next for you, John?”

John shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Leeds, I suppose, if I want to keep my job.”

Neither of them said it, but the question hung between them like the humid summer air: _Where would Sherlock go?_

 

***

 

After gardening, John showered to cool off, washing the dirt and sweat from his body. He hadn’t seen Sherlock since the incident with the drug-dealing barman (John had yet to think of a catchy title for his blog entry) and wasn’t really sure what to do about his recent revelation. It was confusing.

And when he was confused, angry, or otherwise emotional, John did what he usually did: he went for a walk.

The moors neighbouring Holmes Hall were wild and expansive, peppered with rocky outcroppings. After an increasingly sweaty hour, he took a break to cool down and and sip from his water bottle. The large, flat stone was warm under his backside, so he lay down on it, closed his eyes, and thought.

He had fallen in love with a man. And not just any man: a genius man-child with emotional baggage, a drug habit, depression, and destructive tendencies. He had ‘dangerous’ written all over him. Plus, Sherlock had even said on multiple occasions that he was not interested in any type of romantic relationship with anyone, and when John even so much as mentioned the word ‘friendship’, the man froze up and retreated. And yet...and yet there were those moments when Sherlock looked at him a certain way, made suggestive little comments, stood just a little too close… And Sherlock _did_ enjoy John’s company: he’d said as much.

It’s not like John himself was the model of civilised behaviour: John knew he had anger management problems. He, too, struggled with depression. And so far he had a rather dismal track record with serious, long-term relationships. He feared commitment. And, if he were really honest with himself, he’d admit that he was slightly afraid of having a public relationship with another man, of having to deal with bigots who couldn’t keep their mouths shut. He’d never imagined himself waking up in bed with another man, or watching late-night telly together, or bickering over whose turn it was to buy the milk when they were 75. 

Yet he _had_ loved Murray. He had, maybe part of him still did, and it had been real and intense. They’d had sex just once but it had been so...beautifully human...that John’s heart ached just thinking about it.

The thing was: all of that, the intimacy, the desire to be _that_ close to someone else -- terrified John to his core. Ella had said he had ‘trust issues’. He did. Big ones. And trusting Sherlock with his heart? That was a monumental gamble.

Say, for the sake of argument, he did approach Sherlock with his feelings. He probably couldn’t hide them forever. He was an awful liar. How would Sherlock react? Would he stand there, frozen, blinking, trying to process what he’d heard? Would he flee? Would he be embarrassed? Would he laugh? If anything, he would likely remind John, in a tone that conveyed irritation at having to repeat himself, that he was married to his work and that relationships were ‘not his area’.

But what if he didn’t? John could hear it now: “Yes, John, I concur that we should progress our relationship into the realm of romantic as I do find you pleasant enough and of sufficient, if fairly average, intelligence that I would be willing to remove my clothes so we may achieve mutual orgasm.” 

John smiled to himself. But it was fleeting. Sherlock sometimes just seemed like too much of a...a machine...to be able to give him what he really needed in a relationship. Because John had needs, legitimate needs, besides the ability to get on with one another, to have interesting conversation, to simply enjoy one another’s company. He needed sex, but more than that, he _wanted_ intimacy, terrifying as it was, trust issues be damned. He wanted to hold the person he loved, to say sweet nothings to them, to lie, sweaty and sated, within the circle of someone’s arms, hear their heartbeat. He couldn’t even imagine Sherlock being able to do those things. It’d be just like him to have an epiphany during a nice cuddle and leap up and out the door, chasing whatever it was that had crossed his mind, leaving his partner befuddled and alone. 

Though, when John thought about it, he’d probably chase right after him...and enjoy whatever mischief they got up to.

What if Sherlock tired of him? He could hear that, too: “John, you have been an interesting and sometimes entertaining experiment, but I now find this whole business of caring for another human being tedious; furthermore, sex is boring and messy, and I’m afraid I’ll have to delete this aspect of our relationship. We will, of course, continue our friendship as it had been before.”

John sighed. What did he really want? A wife, a house in the suburbs? A child? A dog? Did he want to date again, go to the cinema and dinner? That all seemed so mundane now, so beige. So _safe_. How could he be happy with ‘normal’ after chasing criminals with Sherlock, holding on tight to his back as Sherlock wove through traffic. Those were, by far, the best two dates of John’s entire life. 

He sat up. “Buck up, Johnny,” he heard his sister say. “Stop being such a fucking coward and _do_ something about it.”

He told the Harry in his head to stuff it, but knew she would be right. He’d never been a coward. Intimacy was difficult for him. He found it difficult, talking about his feelings. But he was too old to hide, and time was of an essence. He couldn’t stay at Holmes Hall indefinitely, and as for Sherlock…? He’d be off to wherever life would take him, and John would be stuck in a beige flat in Leeds...alone.

With sudden resolve, John put his water bottle back in his backpack and set off back home. Maybe he’d start small. How to romance Sherlock Holmes? Bring him a cadaver or mould cultures? Take a stroll in the local graveyard? Sneak him into a forbidden place?

Then, John knew: the garden. It was time to show Sherlock the garden.

***

The uncharacteristically warm weather continued. John sweated on the train and dealt with a few patients who really needed to shower more than once or twice a week. He worked three days straight in which he spent most of his free hours thinking. He even considered calling Harry, but never got around to pressing the green button that would connect his call. 

June was coming to a close, and with it, his opportunity to do something about his feelings.

Sherlock kept odd hours, though, making it difficult to bring up the garden. John was considering actually scheduling some type of date with him when Sherlock knocked on his door before letting himself in. 

“It’s hot,” announced the detective in an uncharacteristic display of obviousness. The heat had made his hair frizz more than normal, and he looked uncomfortably warm even in his short-sleeve shirt and linen trousers. 

“What have you been up to? Any good murders?”

“Apparently the heat has caused everyone to sit home and be miserable. Odd, that. Usually hot weather escalates crime. Anyway, no. The good people of Leeds have been behaving themselves and the country folk couldn’t muster up a good mystery if they tried. I have been researching, however.”

“Ooh, do tell,” said John conspiratorially. “What is it this time? Maggots?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “No, actually. Have you given any consideration as to where you will live once the house sells?”

John frowned. “Haven’t thought about it much, really. I probably should.” _I don’t want to_ , he thought. _I want to stay here. With you._

“I have concluded that it would be beneficial for both us to share a flat.”

John raised his eyebrows, then drew them together. He blinked and tried to determine whether or not Sherlock had really just offered to live with him.

“I would like to return to London, but I have grown used to company as of late and would like to share the cost of a centrally-located flat. I’ve been doing some thinking and have analysed our relationship. We get on well. You are not troubled by my experimentation; you take up little space and are generally tidy. Granted, I do play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes, as you know, I don’t speak for days on end.”

John tried to ignore the pounding of his heart, the stirring anticipation in his gut. “You forgot about the drug problem.”

Sherlock sighed and looked contrite. “I’m rehabilitated.”

“That’s what all addicts say, Sherlock.”

“I have...significant... reasons to discontinue that lifestyle.”

“You need me around to kick your arse if you’re tempted, is what you’re saying.”

“Not exactly, but let’s say so for the sake of this argument. Look, John, I’m not proposing marriage. Just a flatshare.”

John’s heart leapt into his throat at the very suggestion. _Married_ to Sherlock Holmes. Good God. What would that even be like? Exhausting, probably. And amazing. Would he wear a ring? Introduce him as his ‘husband’ or ‘partner’? Or both? Would he lay his head in John’s lap on Saturday mornings or Tuesday afternoons and close his eyes while John played with his hair? Would he explode things in their kitchen? Would there be a head in the fridge? Would their laundry mingle in the clothes hamper?

“John?”

“Sorry. Right. Flatshare.” 

“What do you say?”

“I do have a job in Leeds.”

“You hold no attachment to that job, John, and you know it. You can find another in London. Part time, of course. And in in the interim, you can be my assistant.”

“Assistant.”

“Colleague. Partner. I’d be lost without my blogger.” He smiled, a little sideways smile that twisted the corner of his mouth. John wanted to kiss it. 

“Wow. Well.”

“Say something intelligent, John.”

“Yes. Sure. That’d be great.”

“Excellent! Now, to find us a flat. Somewhere in Zone 1, no more than 200 metres from the tube; Barbican might work, or Spitalfields. At a pinch, somewhere near the Silicon Roundabout. But definitely not south of the river. A man must maintain certain standards when seeking appropriate accommodation. I’d also prefer…”

Sherlock rambled on, but John was barely listening. His mind had got caught up on the words “partner” and “I’d be lost without” and the very idea of continuing his life with Sherlock after this summer seemed to fill him up with some kind of incandescent, burning joy that he hadn’t felt in years. Silly, really, to feel so much about a simple request. 

“Sherlock?”

“...was hoping to have a spare room for a lab, but two bedrooms would do just fine and I can make do with the worktop as long as you wouldn’t mind, of course, and a fireplace, and preferably an area where we could see clients..."

“Sherlock, stop. Listen. I’d like….”

“Yes?”

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat, primly, on the chair across from him, put his elbows on his knees, steepled his fingers, and rested his chin on them.

“I’d like very much to tell you something. Something I want to say.”

“Yes?”

“Something I...I’ve been wanting to share with you.”

“Yes?”

“Something that I think you’ll like, and I haven’t found the right time to…”

“Oh for God’s sake, John! Out with it.”

John took a deep breath, then released it. “I’ve been in the garden. The locked one.” 

Sherlock froze. A dozen expressions crossed his face (surprise, curiosity, fear, betrayal) before settling on blank indifference. 

Finding his bravery, John continued. “I found the key. And then the door. And we’ve been…”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed; his lips pressed together. “We?” His voice was razor-sharp.

“Molly. Molly and I. We’ve been cleaning it up and…”

Sherlock stood, held up his hand, commanding silence. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You’ve been in the garden. My _father’s_ garden.”

John waited for a sense of shame or guilt to wash over him, but it didn’t. He felt a certain connection with that small plot of land, not as if it were actually his, but that he belonged there just as much as its previous tenders did. He stood as well, lifted his head so he could meet Sherlock’s eyes and squared his shoulders. _Courage, Watson._ “Yes. And it’s beautiful. I’d like you to see it. With me. Um. Together.”

Sherlock’s carefully schooled features twisted, nostrils flaring. He looked positively furious, twin spots of colour blossoming on his cheeks. He swallowed, once, twice, his mouth working. “How _dare_ you,” he spat, before turning on his heel and leaving, slamming the door behind him.

John stood, the silence oppressive, as if Sherlock had taken all the air out of the room with him, creating a vacuum. His hand trembled. 

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” he yelled to his empty room before kicking a chair for good measure. It skidded across the floor and toppled over. Feeling profoundly defeated, he dropped into the remaining upright chair and put his head in his hands. That didn’t go at all according to plan.

 

***

 

Sherlock left. He took the motorbike and disappeared.

John went to work, came home, ate a cold supper. Sherlock did not come back.

John went to work again, came home, didn’t feel like eating, and still Sherlock did not come back.

The third day dawned hot and muggy, and John spent the day with Lestrade outside, trimming the front hedges as several gangs of labourers tramped in and out of the front entrance. John’s shoulder ached and he was in a foul mood, swearing every so often under his breath as he attempted to clip a woody yew tree into a smooth silhouette (and failing). By 3pm, he was completely knackered and in need of a drink. Lestrade suggested meeting at the local pub in an hour, and John took him up on it immediately.

It was hot cycling into town, and the usually dark and cool pub was just as warm as the air outside. It seemed as if the denizens of Burnett Thwaite all had the same idea: Mr. Chapman and Mr. Campbell sat playing chess at a table, both of them drinking Guinness. Mr. Collins, the butcher, had met his wife Sue for dinner, and a dozen other locals had come together to complain about the heat and cool off with a drink. Jackie Metcalf, the landlord, stood behind the bar, washing glasses. John and Lestrade took a seat at the far end of the bar, ordered some crisps and two pints of Stella. They analysed Leeds United's disastrous season while they drank and cooled down before Lestrade wiped his forehead with a serviette and said, “Mycroft told me. About the garden.”

“Shit. He told Mycroft?”

Lestrade nodded. “Sherlock’s left, then?”

“Yeah. He was angry. Very angry.”

“I’d be pissed off, too,” said Lestrade as he sipped his ale. “I _am_ pissed off. Always wanted to see the inside of that garden.”

“He was a bit more than ‘pissed off,’ Greg. Jesus. He’d better not be out of it on smack somewhere.” He shook his head, angry at himself, angry at Sherlock for not even hearing him out.

“Mycroft keeps tabs on him. Give him a ring.”

“That’s the thing,” said John, setting his own glass down on the bar and dabbing at the moisture running down its side. “He’s a grown man. I am not his minder, his keeper, his babysitter, or whatever it is Mycroft wishes I were. And it’s none of his business, as far as I’m concerned.”

Greg thought about that. “It rather is, though,” he said at length. “It’s his house, his garden. His brother. His father, too.” 

“We weren’t hurting anything.”

“Another, lads?” interrupted Metcalf.

“Why not?” said John. It was downright hot, and the lager tasted especially crisp and refreshing.

“You hurt his feelings, I’d reckon.”

“His feelings. Sherlock’s?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Of course. Just because he’s…” --Lestrade flapped a hand as he searched for the right word-- “...idiosyncratic... doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things like the rest of us.”

“I _know_ that,” John said bitterly.

Metcalf placed two new pint glasses in front of them, wiped his hands on his towel, and went back to the other side of the bar by the fan that wasn’t doing much to help.

“The thing is,” John said after a long silence in which they sipped their drinks, “is that I don’t feel the need to apologise. This sounds stupid, but I was _supposed_ to work in that garden. I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or any of that, don’t get me wrong. But...it just felt right. Still does. And I have a hard time apologising for something that feels that way.” 

Lestrade nodded. “He’ll come around,” he said eventually. “I wouldn’t worry too much. He likes you. I know it’s none of my business, but you’ve been good for him. He’s...happy. As happy as he gets, at least. I’m not the least surprised he’s still around.”

“Why not? He’s got everything he wants here.”

“Wants? Oh, there’s nothing he wants here. He wants the city life and the crime that comes with it. He wants London, the traffic and the noise. He wants expensive cigarettes and fucking bespoke suits. No, it’s not what he wants that keeps him here. It’s what he _needs_ that makes him stay.”

John snorted. “Oh yeah, and what’s that? Flowers?”

Lestrade inhaled as if he were going to explain, but then he just kind of shook his head and smirked.

“What? Tell me!”

Drinking the last quarter of his beer in several quick swallows, Lestrade stood up and clapped John on the back. “Think about it,” he said. Then, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Get those blasted roses to bloom?”

John managed a laugh. “Not yet.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. See ya ‘round, Jackie,” he called to the barman, who raised a glass he was washing in a goodbye salute. 

John nursed the rest of his pint, trying not to think about the heat or the feeling that he was missing something incredibly obvious. 

His phone pinged. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers before checking it: Mycroft. Great. What did he want? To tell John to get out, chastise him for upsetting his brother?

John thumbed open the text. 

**S safe and well at my place in London. I thought you might wish to know.**

John sighed, finished what was left in his glass, and pocketed his phone without replying. 

_He’s safe and well_. Of course he was. _Wish I was, too_ , John thought sadly. 

He said goodbye to Metcalf and rode his bike back to Holmes Hall, a big, empty house that was no longer his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indefinite thanks to Bettyswallocks and Canola Crush for their bang-up beta work. It's funny what happens with language when you put an American, Canadian, and Briton together. Why is a ladybug called a ladybird? It's not a bird! It's a bug!!! Ladybug! I guess it should just be called "red bug with black spots". Anyway, they do a wonderful job and I appreciate them both and their attention to detail.
> 
> And to all of you, dear readers, who have given me so much wonderful feedback. I hope you find this story fulfilling, although this chapter doesn't end on a positive note. Don't worry; it will all be resolved, and very, very soon. Like the next chapter. Promise. I cannot wait to share it with you. :)


	18. In Bloom

Chapter 18: In Bloom

 

The heat finally broke the next day in the form of a torrential rainstorm. Great sheets of it came sweeping across the moors, and John fell asleep listening to it pelt against his windows. In the morning, the gusts of wind grew strong enough to break small branches off the trees, and John was thankful he didn’t have to go to work in such dreadful weather. 

A crew of builders were re-plastering the ceilings in several rooms, whilst another team wrestled with electrical fittings and repaired ancient sash windows. Mrs. Hudson baked biscuits for the whole lot of them. She kept the small radio on in the kitchen to hear the weather forecast and shooed John out every time he sneaked in to steal a bite of dough.

Shortly after noon, there was a power cut. A falling oak had destroyed a major cable serving Burnett Thwaite, and Yorkshire Electricity didn’t expect it to be repaired until evening. The workers went home (having had their biscuits), and John was left to his own devices.

He pulled out his phone several times, not knowing exactly what to do with it. Eventually its battery ran out.

By late afternoon, the rain had dwindled to a steady drizzle. He hoped his newly planted seeds hadn’t washed away. He didn’t even want to think about the garden. It had been filled with so much promise and now it just seemed...pointless. Lestrade was probably right. It wasn’t John’s place; he’d overstepped his bounds, meddled with something private. He had, however, moved on. Moved on from his bleak, lifeless slog, and he was a man again, not some soulless thing going through the motions. He’d rediscovered the joy of living, and he’d be forever thankful to Sherlock for that.

It was still raining at 9pm; the house was dark and quiet. Candlelight wasn’t bright enough for him to read by, so he went to bed early and slept fitfully.

He awakened the next morning to find the electricity was back on. He showered, shaved, and got ready for work, thankful that the trains were all running on time and that the storm hadn’t caused any delays for morning commuters.

Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found, so he ate his breakfast alone. The surgery was busy but not too stressful, and he was pleased to find that the weather was beautiful when he was finished. A gentle but steady breeze had dried up most of the rain, and everything looked especially green.

He finally cycled up to Holmes Hall around 5pm, pedaling around the side of the house to put his bike in Lestrade’s garage. He stopped his bike when he heard it: a violin playing. Sherlock’s window was open, and coming from it strains of music. He’d come back.

John tried not to jog into the house. What was he going to do, anyway? Throw open Sherlock’s door, grab him in a hug, and say, “It’s lovely to see you, mate!” But anticipation thrummed under his skin and propelled him to the back door, where he met Mrs. Hudson, who was sweeping the patio.

“He’s back?”

“Oh yes. Came in late last night. Looked like a wet puppy, he did. Soaked to the bone. Could have taken a car, I’d said. He’ll catch his death.”

“He rode in the rain for four hours?” John laughed. Of course Sherlock did.

“You know how he is. He gets ideas in that head of his and then forgets about all common sense. Anyway, I made the two of you supper.” She stopped sweeping and leaned in conspiratorially. “I think he wants to apologise,” she mock-whispered. 

“No, it was my fault,” said John. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Hudson, straightening back up and giving the stones a few good strokes with her broom. “I know exactly what you were thinking. It’s about time those two get over the past and move on. No one else was using it, and you needed a bit of earth, I’d say. It’s good for a man to get his hands dirty. Now then, let’s go and see about supper.”

John dropped off his backpack and took another quick shower --he smelled of antiseptic-- before walking down to the kitchen. He expected to see Mrs. Hudson bustling about, but instead there was Sherlock, carefully setting the table with silver cutlery and the Spode dinner service which was kept for special occasions. Just two place settings, John noticed immediately. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Sherlock looked impeccable, as if he’d dressed for the occasion, in black trousers and a crisp, dove-grey shirt. John’s heart beat faster at the very sight of him. How on earth was he ever going to platonically share a flat with the man? Good God, he was gorgeous.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’ve been told that dinner is an acceptable form of apology.”

John smiled and tried not to cry. “Mrs. Hudson made the dinner, Sherlock,” he said jokingly.

“I helped.” Sherlock pulled a bottle of Pinot Noir from the wine rack and set about opening it. He poured them both a glass and they sat down.

“I’m sorry,” said John, “that I…”

Sherlock shook his head. “The apologies are mine. I over-reacted. It was a foolish emotional response that I should have been able to control.”

“You really think so?”

“It’s just a patch of land.” He shrugged and tried his best to look unfazed.

“That’s the thing,” said John. “It’s not just a patch of land, and you know it. I should have respected that more. I didn’t realise...I should have asked.” John sipped his wine, then held up his glass. “Still friends?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. He nodded and clinked his glass against John’s before taking a sip himself.

“Now. Can we eat? This smells delicious.”

They ate together, Sherlock falling back into his familiar patterns of storytelling. The food was excellent (a green salad, roast chicken and root vegetables, and a strawberry tart for dessert) and John felt more relaxed after several glasses of wine. Yet something had changed; Sherlock looked more thoughtful, the way he did when he was puzzling something out when that great brain of his came up short. 

Mrs. Hudson stayed away, so they cleaned up together (Sherlock did more talking than actually loading the dishwasher). 

“The offer still stands,” Sherlock said as they parted ways for the evening. “About the flat. If you’d like.”

John didn’t even have to think about it. “Yeah, Sherlock. That’d be great.”

Sherlock smiled, a little closed-mouth smile, before nodding. “Goodnight, John.”

 

***

 

John was attempting to steer a troupe of interior designers through the east wing. Anthea, who was running behind, had sent a long list of directions and entrusted John with the task of getting them to their assigned rooms. John couldn’t imagine why anyone would need to employ people to rearrange furniture. One older man was an antique dealer and was tagging artefacts to be put up for auction; most pieces, however, would simply be sold with the home. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock seemed to want any of it. John had grown rather attached to his own comfortable bed and wondered whether it would be appropriate if he should ask to buy it for himself. 

He was in the middle of trying to tell one of the decorators to take an inventory of all of the hall’s original pieces of artwork when he received a text.

**I want to see the garden. -SH**   
**Now, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.**

John smiled to himself and typed out:

**Gladly. Be there in 10mins.**

The last thing he wanted to be doing was listening to a bunch of cultured know-it-alls discuss the value of every last bit of Holmes Hall. After making sure everyone was where they were supposed to be, he slipped out.

Sherlock was waiting for him by the garden door. He’d pulled some of the ivy down; the door was once again visible. 

“You’d need a chainsaw to get through all of this,” he muttered as John approached. “Good God. How did you ever get in here?”

John regarded what was left of his ivy curtain. “I clipped the tendrils from the brick, you idiot. Slipped in behind it.”

Sherlock considered. “That would work.”

John held out the keys. “For you, I think.”

Sherlock took them, their hands brushing. 

“Yes, I think so.” Sherlock held the keys in his palm for a moment before unlocking the first, old lock, and then the more modern one. He then handed them back to John. “For your safekeeping,” he said, and pushed open the door.

 

***

 

John hung back, tucking the keys into his pocket, as Sherlock surveyed the garden. Sherlock stood close to the door; John watched the sunlight catch in his hair and found himself appreciating the line of Sherlock’s back, the curve of his arse. 

Eventually Sherlock moved, slowly walking along the perimeter path before stopping.

“My roses!” 

John approached carefully, unsure of how Sherlock would react. It was bound to be an emotional experience, whether the man wanted to admit it or not. “Um, did I do it wrong? I pruned them, and fertilized them in early April. They had aphids, so Molly brought ladybirds and we used a special soap. Nasty thorns on these...did you engineer those, too?”

Sherlock smiled. “No. John, they look perfect.” 

“So, what makes it bloom? What’s the key?”

Sherlock looked at him, looking positively radiant, the happiest and most at ease John had ever seen him. “Now that, John, is a highly guarded secret.”

“No, really. Tell me.”

“There is no key, really. They just need a special blend of essential nutrients. Garden lime and cow manure worked into the soil at the beginning of the season help, but you can do it anytime. It’s a heavy feeder, so it needs more phosphorous during peak growing season to get it to bloom. It’s prone to powdery mildew and black spot, annoyingly. But growing roses is not that difficult. Lestrade just has bad luck with them. I suppose I could clue him in, but I rather enjoy watching him struggle.”

“You’re a dick.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Lestrade hasn’t the right touch. It seems you do.”

John smiled, mildly embarrassed (yet flattered) by the praise.

Sherlock stooped and took a bud between his fingers, examining it. “They’re nearly ready,” he announced. “See, look. They’ll bloom. Very soon.”

John bent down to see more closely. 

“The sepals, there, contain the flower within. Rapid cellular elongation within the petals themselves will force the sepals apart. They will peel back so the rose can bloom properly.”

“You never said you were a botanist.”

“I was a bored child with a father who loved to garden. They weren’t all that keen on animal dissection, but plants and flowers were bountiful and innocuous. Most of them, at least. There was that one time with the mushrooms…”

“Aha! Not technically a plant,” John clarified, pointing a finger in Sherlock’s direction.

“Exactly.” Sherlock smiled and stood up. “They’ll bloom anytime now. Blink and you’ll miss it. Used to sit here for hours, trying to see it happen. I always gave up.”

John couldn’t imagine Sherlock giving up on anything. He could picture him clearly, a curly-haired, determined little eight-year-old, crouched in front of the plant while his father weeded a neighbouring bed.

“We’re not finished,” John said as they started to stroll slowly along the path. “And we’re not going to, not before the place sells. It’s just too much work for two people. But we’ve done enough, I think.”

Sherlock nodded, lost in thought as they walked along, approaching the stump of the plum tree. “My father would have liked this,” said Sherlock as he looked at the spot, his hands in his pockets. “He would have liked you.”

“Thank you.”

John felt at peace as they toured the rest of the garden. He showed Sherlock the wild places that he couldn’t really do anything to without power tools and pointed out where he’d planted new spring bulbs. Sherlock spent a good 10 minutes explaining the forensic importance of pollen. Eventually they ended up sitting on the brick patio by the birdbath. Wild thyme had taken up residence on the right side of the patio. John hadn’t removed it, and now it grew in abundance, green and fragrant. John stretched his legs out and leaned back on his elbows, enjoying the sun, before reaching out and picking an overhanging daisy from the mass of them to his left. He spun it idly between his fingers. 

“You should have pulled up all those,” said Sherlock. “Common weeds, really.”

“I like them.”

“Hmmph.”

The sun was high overhead and the garden was warm, its own self-contained little oven. Bees lumbered around from flower to flower, their little legs laden with pollen. John wondered if they were from Mr. Campbell’s hives, if for years they had remembered this secret spot, had flown over its walls to harvest its bounties long after tragedy had closed its door to the people who had loved it most.

John continued to twirl the flower before pulling off one creamy white petal, then another. “She loves me, she loves me not,” he murmured to himself.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ve never…? Never mind. It’s something we used to do as children. It’s a game. You pull the petals off, and whatever you say last determines whether or not the object of your affection returns your feelings.”

Sherlock frowned, and picked a flower of his own, turning it this way and that. “That’s a completely ridiculous way of determining whether or not someone has romantic feelings toward you,” he said at length. “First of all, it’s faulty. The result is solely dependant on whether there is an even or odd number of petals; in other words, simple mathematics. Furthermore, the number of petals a flower has is not necessarily determined by species or genetics. This daisy may have 24, and that one 25. You could also change your results simply by beginning with ‘he loves me not’ instead of ‘he loves me.’”

“No, you have to start with ‘he loves me.’”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it’s done, Sherlock.”

“Fine. Is there a particular flower that one must use to play this inane game?”

“No. Although no one really has the patience to go after something like a dahlia or something with loads of petals. No one picks roses, if that’s concerning you.”

“Too distinguished.”

“Exactly. Distinguished. It’s usually daisies. Something that grows in abundance, something kids won’t get scolded for picking. We used to make chains, Harry and I. When we were at our grandparents’. They grew wild, everywhere.” 

“There are easier and more accurate ways of recognising romantic interest.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Basic human biology, Dr. Watson. The chemistry of attraction is well-documented. Simply observe respiration and heart rates, look for biological responses to hormone release, such as dilated pupils or a flush to the skin when the person in question is in the presence of his beloved.”

John laughed. Of course. “That sounds like some rubbish you picked up in _Cosmopolitan_ or something.” 

Sherlock looked offended. “I did not.”

“It’s not always that easy to pick up on. People can successfully hide attraction, even deep-rooted love. Sometimes for years. Indefinitely. Surely you’ve come across such instances in your research. You said that love was...what was it? Oh, yes. A ‘vicious motivator’.”

Sherlock frowned. “I am simply trying to convey that picking apart a daisy tells you nothing about someone’s true feelings. All you’re left with is a mutilated flower. Which is rather beside the point, I’d say.”

“True.” John looked at his half-plucked daisy and brought it absently to his lips, where he tapped it gently.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Finish it. Does she love you or not?”

John smiled. “Let’s see.” He pulled off the rest of the petals, one by one, before announcing, “Alas, Sherlock. She does not.”

Sherlock twirled his own flower. Swallowed a few times. “I am sorry she does not return your affections. I know I am a...distraction...to her. Perhaps when I leave you will be able to capture her attention.”

John blinked. “I haven’t a clue who you’re talking about,” he said.

Sherlock looked up, raised an eyebrow. “Secret meetings in a locked garden, John. It’s a storybook fantasy come to life.”

“What? You mean Molly?” John laughed softly, toying with the flower stem. “I’m not in love with Molly Hooper, Sherlock.”

Something akin to surprise and relief softened Sherlock’s features. “Not in love with Molly? But…”

“No. Stop. Just...no. Not Molly.”

“Ah ha! But you _are_ in love with someone.”

_Take my pulse,_ John thought, trying to keep his emotions (and his face) under control. “Maybe,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s complicated.”

“And by complicated, you mean that you are not sure if your feelings are reciprocated.”

John pursed his lips, not answering, and picked another daisy. “I thought this wasn’t your area,” he ventured at length. “Chatting. About relationships.”

Sherlock immediately closed up; the mask of indifference slid into place. “No, it’s not.” He looked away. “I won’t be trying that again.”

John threw the flower at him. It hit him on the nose. “Oh, stop that. It’s just. I don’t find this sort of thing easy. Talking. About the way I feel about people. That’s all.”

Sherlock, apparently mollified, attempted levity. “Unless you dislike them.” 

John smiled. “Yes, well, then I suppose I can find a few appropriate modifiers for how I’m feeling. It’s easier for me to write it.”

“Shall I scour the blog to reveal the secrets of your heart?”

John thought about his blog. His private entries aside, everything he’d written in the past month had to do with Sherlock. _That would be one way to figure it out,_ he thought. Instead, he picked another flower and began picking it apart again.

“You know those aren’t even true petals,” said Sherlock, picking another one of his own. “The flowers are actually the yellow things, here. And these,” he ran his thumb over the white petals, “are ligules.”

“Oh. Are they now?”

“John, I think I might have a solution to your problem,” said Sherlock, rearranging himself more comfortably on the warm ground. “May I?”

John raised his hands in a ‘go ahead’ gesture.

“You have...feelings...for someone whom you believe does not return your affections or is unattainable. Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I see. And you consider that person to be a friend and are unwilling to sacrifice your friendship in case you are romantically rejected.”

“Right again.”

“You’ve had a similar relationship in the past that ended in tragedy.”

John took a shaky breath. Exhaled. “Not exactly, but yes.”

“This person is very important to you.”

“Yes.” He picked another daisy and began a chain, if only to keep his hands occupied and eyes from betraying anything.

“If you did have a relationship with this person it would be rather...unconventional.”

“You could say so.”

“Perhaps the object of your affections is also wondering the same things.”

“I don’t think so, Sherlock.”

“No, listen. Don’t interrupt. Perhaps he is completely rubbish at relationships and can’t imagine why anyone would genuinely have romantic feelings toward him. He knows his own limitations and shortcomings, after all. Perhaps he finds these things...sentiment, emotional attachment...just as difficult as you do.”

John froze at the pronoun clarification. _He._ He said _he_. His fingers suddenly forgot what they were doing and he dropped the daisy chain into his lap.

“Perhaps he is too selfish and too much of an arsehole to really navigate one with any chance of long-term success. Perhaps he knows there are dark places inside himself that would be impossible to share. And perhaps he has never felt this way before, not really, and has no idea how to proceed with his unprecedented emotions. Bothersome, that. His genius does not extend beyond the realm of the cerebral. He does know he feels, though, and deeply. Perhaps he, too, fears rejection, of spoiling something he considers...precious.”

John tried to breathe through his nose, but his heart was pounding and felt like it had lodged somewhere in his throat; a fluttery-queasy feeling curled around his belly. Was this really happening? Was he really sitting in one of the most beautiful places he’d ever been, his own piece of earth, his secret garden, faced with the prospect of starting something new, something _significant_ , something that seemed thrillingly forbidden? Had he really managed to capture the interest of the world’s only consulting detective? It didn’t seem real. He took another slow breath to try to calm his racing heart.

“Perhaps,” continued Sherlock, slowly, deliberately, “he should try consulting the daisies.”

John dared to look, then, and saw Sherlock, cheeks pink from the warm summer day, his eyes full of trepidation...and affection. Sherlock held what was left of a daisy, turning it this way and that before bringing up his other hand to pull off one of the remaining petals.

“He loves me,” said Sherlock, voice deep and evocative. He licked his lips nervously before tossing the petal away. “He loves me not.” 

_Oh God._

Another petal. John watched it flutter to the ground.

“He loves me.”

Another petal.

“He loves me not.”

Another petal.

“He loves me.”

Only one remained. Sherlock reached for it, his long, delicate fingers ready to clasp the petal of negation when John decided that he couldn’t stand to hear it, for Sherlock even ever have to think about it again, to doubt whether he was cherished, desired, loved.

“He…”

“...loves you very much,” said John, finding his voice. “He does, he does.” John reached up to take the flower and flung it away, the last petal still clinging to the head. He heaved in a breath and let it out, unbridled joy replacing his fear and nervousness. His eyes met Sherlock’s. “I do.”

Sherlock’s lower lip did something funny, halfway between a wobble and a frown, and John reached out and drew their faces together.

Behind them, the thorny mass of Sherlock’s roses that had lain dormant for years began to bloom, sepals separating as the flower within slowly broke forth into the light. 

Neither man noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bettyswallocks for the British betaing. I find the subtle differences in phrasings and idioms a continual source of amazement. Fascinating. Canolacrush wields a whip while betaing, striking out my convoluted passages and sometimes awkward phrasing. And Scullyseviltwin let me know that this chapter was not too fluffy or sappy (soppy, says Betty).
> 
> Thanks to every one of you for reading. Now, here comes the bad news: I'm caught up in the writing process, and I will be going on vacation next week, so it will likely be a few weeks before I can write and post chapters 19-22. In the meantime, enjoy the fact that the boys will be smooching in the garden until I return.


	19. Tilling the Soil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When last we saw our boys, they were kissing in the garden...
> 
> It's been a while between updates; I do plan on finishing the entire piece before September!
> 
> Thanks to the usual suspects, BettySwallocks and Canolacrush. And thanks to everyone who has left awesome comments and encouragements.

Chapter 19: Tilling the Soil

 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t been intimate with anyone for so long, or maybe it was because he was kissing an incredibly sexy man, but whatever the reason, John was as close as he’d been to coming in his pants since his teenage years. They’d stop and get their breath back, noses rubbing against each other, foreheads bumping, a press of lips to an eyebrow or cheekbone, and then go back to it, lips meeting and parting, tongues swiping wetly against each other. Sherlock seemed to enjoy soft, closed-mouth kisses as much as the intense, sloppier ones; his big hands framed John’s face, brushing his hair off his forehead, cradling the back of his neck. He was vocal, too, little groans and sighs escaping those perfect lips.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long…” Sherlock said when they finally broke apart, panting. “So long.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 

John drank in the flush on Sherlock’s cheeks, his kiss-swollen lips. “You’re shaking.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock said, leaning forward again to nudge at John’s ear. “I’m aroused,” he said quietly. The inticing words traveled into John’s ear and went straight to his groin, where his already straining prick leaped against his trousers. “I’d nearly forgotten what it feels like.”

“Is it OK? I know you don’t usually go in for this sort of thing and…”

“Shhh,” said Sherlock, finding John’s hand and placing it over his own crotch. “It’s very OK. More than OK. Brilliant.”

John groaned and closed his eyes. He envisioned himself spread out on a blanket, naked, the sun silhouetting Sherlock, who lay above him, arms on either side of him as they made love among the flowers…

“Do you want to…”

“Yes,” answered John, coming back to himself and opening his eyes. Sherlock hadn’t let go of his hand, and John pressed harder, fascinated and delighted with the hardness beneath.

Sherlock chuckled, his voice deep and wonderful. “I wasn’t finished.”

“I don’t care. Yes. To whatever. Please.”

“I was going to suggest going inside for a drink. Maybe we should talk about this.”

John swallowed, looked at his hand in its tantalising location. “Talk.”

Sherlock smiled, removed John’s hand, and disentangled himself from their embrace. He adjusted himself in his trousers and sat back. “I have to admit there’s something very appealing about romantic liaisons among the flowers.”

_Romantic liaisons_ , thought John.

“But to be honest” --he looked around-- “it feels a bit odd. Kissing in my father’s garden.”

“Oh.”

“And everyone’s still around. They’ll be looking for us. I wouldn’t fancy being interrupted.”

“Right.”

Sherlock stood and stretched; John saw he was still hard, and the thought filled him with a sense of pride, of power. John stood too, brushed the remains of daisies from his trousers and dust from his rear. He was thirsty; the early afternoon sun (and his intense arousal) making him just shy of too hot. 

Slowly, they followed the gravel path toward the garden door, their arms brushing together. John wondered whether Sherlock would enjoy holding hands and was contemplating whether or not he should go for it when they both noticed the roses. Sherlock turned to John, smiling, his eyes shining and full of fondness. John rummaged in his pocket for his penknife. He gave it to Sherlock, who cut a stem with half-opened flower.

“You haven’t got a buttonhole,” said John.

“It’s not for me,” Sherlock said, closing the knife. He held the flower out, inspecting it.

“Romancing me?” John teased.

“No. It’s for Lestrade.”

“Romancing Lestrade? You’re a fickle man, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock leaned in then, and kissed him again, a hard, passionate kiss that should have, in John’s opinion, lasted quite a bit longer. He longed to press his body up against Sherlock’s, walk him right back into an ivy-covered wall and bring them together, chest to chest, belly to belly, cock to cock.

“I want you, John,” Sherlock mumbled against his mouth when he pulled away. “I want _you_.”

John felt his face heat. “Well, good,” he said, tugging his shirt back into place. “Glad that’s settled.”

Sherlock twirled the flower stem between his fingers. “I’m going to put it in a vase and let him puzzle over it.” 

“Cruel.”

Sherlock shrugged, then sighed, and turned so he was facing the garden. “This is yours now. All these are yours. To do with as you wish.”

“No, Sherlock, it’s not. It’s yours. And your brother’s. And Mrs. Hudson’s, Molly’s. Lestrade’s. Your parents’. I don’t want it. It’s meant to be shared, I think.”

Sherlock nodded, pressed his lips together. It was a subject for another time. “Let’s go.”

“Should I lock it back up?” John asked as they ducked beneath the ivy curtain.

“No. I would think it’s hardly necessary.”

“I suppose so.” 

They walked back quietly, occasionally brushing hands. John could sense Sherlock looking at him, and John didn’t even try to suppress the smile that pulled on his lips. He was profoundly happy. And in love. 

Whatever Sherlock felt for him in return was more than enough.

 

***

 

As it turned out, there was no talking. As soon as they’d got in, Sherlock was drawn into the proceedings whereupon he got into a heated debate with one of the antiques dealers about the value of a painting. (It ended badly for the antiques dealer.) It seemed to take ages before Anthea withdrew her army of redecorators.

Then Mrs. Hudson saw the rose Sherlock had brought in, quickly put two and two together, cornered the two of them, and demanded to see the garden. As suspected, she wept, and Sherlock may have snuffled once or twice. 

The three of them cooked a late supper together, and Sherlock explained his plans of moving to London with John.

Mrs. Hudson questioned John’s judgement and cautioned him about bringing young ladies around when Sherlock was prone to have experiments on the worktop. John assured her there would be no young ladies, and he and Sherlock both smiled at each other in such a way that Mrs. Hudson’s eyes went wide. She clapped her hands and immediately opened a bottle of Bollinger and then drank half of it herself, nattering on about selling the house, the secret garden, and the joys of true love. Sherlock sipped his champagne and looked at John in a way that made him feel hot all over and thankful that the tablecloth covered his lap.

It was dark by the time they were alone again. “Come with me,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, and they walked quietly upstairs.

 

***

 

They made love in Sherlock’s bed.

By the light of a small table lamp, they undressed each other slowly, reverently, pushing buttons through holes and unzipping trousers with gentle, shaking fingers. 

“I want you,” Sherlock said softly as he kissed the skin he revealed. He said it over and over, as if he were surprised by his own need, as if he’d never before wanted anyone. Maybe, John wondered, he hadn’t. So with every iteration, John returned the sentiment with his fingers, lips, and tongue. He was so turned on, his body ready for sex, but it was more than that. Something deeper, indefinable, even, born of friendship and fondness. And then there was the thrilling nature of the forbidden and the novelty of pleasuring a man. What he’d done with Murray that one time lasted maybe ten minutes and, for all its raw intensity, was nothing about exploration and everything about impulse. What he was now entering with Sherlock was so different. 

John marvelled at it all, the masculine planes and heavy muscles of Sherlock’s body: the curve of his deltoid, bicep, pectoral. He ran his fingers over the bones of Sherlock’s ankles, the arches of his long, pale feet, brushed his hands up the hair on his legs, thumbed a little smooth, bare patch on the insides of Sherlock’s thighs that made Sherlock squirm and laugh in delight. 

In turn, Sherlock examined John’s scar. He asked no questions, but he chewed his lower lip and ran his fingertips over it. To John’s amusement, Sherlock seemed particularly affected by scent, and nosed behind John’s ear, under his arm, the back of his knees, and the crease of his groin.

“I want to know you,” Sherlock whispered as he kissed his way back up John’s body. “Learn you.”

“Yes,” breathed John. “Anything.”

Sherlock was attentive and thorough. He murmured questions when he was uncertain and picked up on John’s cues when something felt particularly good. Eventually John simply pulled Sherlock on top of him so they could move together.

They lay together after, sweaty and sated, bellies wet and chests heaving. 

Sherlock caressed John’s hip, back, and shoulder, his long fingers tracing patterns on the skin as it cooled. Emotion threatened to boil up and over: for as wonderful as he felt, high on sex hormones, John found himself swallowing down a tightness in his throat. 

“There are so many things I want to say to you,” Sherlock murmured. “And I have no idea how. I don’t even think I have the words.”

John sniffed. _I know_ , he thought.

“And I have so many questions. Some concerns,” he continued.

Sherlock found John’s hand and laced their fingers together.

“There’s one in my mind that’s going to need immediate attention.”

John swallowed down his apprehension and kissed Sherlock’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Where on earth are we going to buy the lube?”

John turned so he could see Sherlock’s face. In the golden lamplight, he looked very serious, mouth turned down and eyebrows drawn together. He held John’s gaze for a moment, before his lips curled into a sly smile.

They laughed together for a very long time.

 

***

 

“Stay the night?” Sherlock said after they’d cleaned up. “I don’t sleep as much as most people, but I’d...enjoy your company.”

John stroked Sherlock’s face, running his thumb over his eyebrow, cupping his chin. “Of course.” 

Sherlock opened the windows to let in the night breeze, and they climbed back into Sherlock’s big bed. Sherlock rolled to his side and drew John’s arms around him.

John was nearly asleep when he heard Sherlock mutter, “The motorbike.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s when I knew.”

“Knew what, love?”

John heard Sherlock swallow. “That,” he said softly. “What this must be. I’m not…” He swallowed again, pushing down emotion. “I don’t know…”

“Shhh.” John wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock’s waist. “Neither do I. Rather rubbish at the whole relationship business myself. But it’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

“You gave so much away. When you came to find me at the back of the pub, the look in your eyes…”

“What’s that?”

“Anger. Rage, even. I could see a bit of it, then. What lies just beneath the surface. There’s a part of you that loves danger.”

“Yeah.” John couldn’t deny it.

“But there was more than that. Jealousy. Hurt. You looked like you were ready to step into battle. For me. I saw it there in your face and I was distracted.”

“I would have hurt him if he touched you.”

“He punched me in the face. And I do believe you dislocated his arm.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock shifted a bit, adjusted the pillow under his head and kicked off the sheet. The curtains fluttered in the breeze.

“You were good, weren’t you. In the war.”

“Yeah.”

“The action, the challenge.”

“I’m a good doctor.”

“Yes, but not all doctors can be army doctors, now, can they? It takes a certain skill set, a specific type of person.”

John kissed Sherlock’s back. “Point?”

“I’ll admit I’d entertained the idea before that day. But seeing you like that, deducing what you must have felt for me to react so strongly, it just…” He huffed a breath out his nose, unable to articulate exactly what it was he meant to say. “And then I knew, later, as we drove back, you tight around me just like this. That maybe you could be more than just my friend. _We_ could be more. The possibility was there, at least. I hoped.”

“Hmm. Funny. It’s when I knew, too.” He laughed softly. “God, you in those jeans.”

“Still want to move to London with me?” Sherlock’s voice was tinged with apprehension.

John didn’t even have to think about it. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll be a horrible flatmate.”

“I know.”

Sherlock relaxed. John tucked his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, inhaling the scent of his skin. He smelled a bit like the garden, John supposed, earthy and sweet, the way the soil did after he’d tilled it by hand. It was an appropriate metaphor for the current phase of his life. A new beginning: breaking up the old, the dry and useless, to establish a new purpose, fresh soil for new seeds. Sherlock had already insinuated himself into John’s life and put down roots, deep and strong. John wondered what would bloom. Whatever it would be, it would be strange, wonderful, and theirs.

 

***

 

“Well bugger me,” swore Lestrade, hand on his hips as he stood in front of Sherlock’s roses, which were now a cornucopia of colour and scent. He took off his cap, wiped his forehead, put his cap back on, and crossed his arms. 

“Garden lime,” said John, leaning in. “Work it in around the roots.”

“I tried that!” Lestrade said loudly, throwing his hands up. “Jesus!” 

John heard Sherlock chuckle darkly from somewhere behind them. 

“Bloody lucky, that’s what you are,” Lestrade continued, shaking his head. 

“Mmm, yes,” said Sherlock, sidling up to John and kissing his temple. “He is lucky. He has me.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Good God.” 

John raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t counted on Sherlock being publicly demonstrative. He found he didn’t mind.

“Anyway,” said John as Sherlock meandered away, “I figure we can dig one up and take it with us.”

“Best time to do that’s in the autumn,” said Lestrade. “Not while it’s blooming, at least. I can’t believe you’ve cleaned all this up.” He looked around, smiling. “And right under our noses, too.”

“Molly’s done the entire centre bed,” said John, pointing out Molly’s handiwork. “She has a real eye for colour, like you do. I just...pulled some weeds and moved a few things around. Nothing special.”

The robin landed in the birdbath and flapped its wings, sending droplets of water flying. John looked at it fondly.

“Must have been a heck of a job. I can’t imagine how overgrown it was. Have you shown your brother yet?” asked Lestrade when Sherlock wandered back over. 

“Touchy subject,” murmured John.

“No,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade knew enough to leave it alone. “So, um, you two, eh? ‘Bout time, really. What’s next for you?”

“London,” said Sherlock. “Find a place and set up business.”

“Detective work?”

“Consulting detective. Yes.”

“And John?”

“I’ll be his...assistant, I guess.”

“My partner,” Sherlock corrected.

“And maybe locum work if there’s no case on.”

Lestrade nodded. “Been hoping to get back into it myself. Not that I don’t like this place, but it’s not my life’s work, you know. Everything’s been squared away, and I have a few connections in the Met. Thinking of relocating to London myself, actually.”

John watched as a tic appeared on Sherlock’s face, the muscle jumping in his cheek and an eyebrow quirking just so, indications that the wheels of his genius brain were rotating along some new path. John liked that look, but also knew it would likely get them into all sorts of trouble down the road. He’d ask him about it later.

“You’re not entirely incompetent, Lestrade,” said Sherlock. “I’ve read your file.”

“Ta? And why does that not surprise me,” sighed Lestrade.

“Wait. Have you read mine?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t even bother dignifying the question with an answer. _Of course he had_ , John thought. Probably the second day he’d arrived, withdrawal be damned.

They wandered about the garden for a while longer, Lestrade having finally got over his initial amazement, and started discussing more practical matters, such as who was going to purchase Molly’s horses and what was going to be done with all the lawn equipment. Eventually he saw himself out, and John and Sherlock sat on a stone bench by the stump of the plum tree and the just-sprouted forget-me-nots. 

“He took that well,” said Sherlock.

“Did you see his face?” 

Both of them giggled, remembering the way Lestrade’s eyebrows had shot up with his lip curled in disbelief when he’d entered the garden. 

For a long time they just sat there, faces tipped to the sunshine.

“I think it could work,” said John eventually, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You and me, in London.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it would work.”

“No, listen.” John nudged Sherlock’s knee with his own. “I think. I think it would be...good.”

Sherlock considered. “There’s always work. London is never lacking in criminals, and a few of those are bound to be _interesting_. I do hate a boring criminal. So disappointing.”

“Indeed,” said John, teasing. 

“I’m sure Homicide and Serious Crime Command at the Met has plenty of cold cases they’d be willing to let me work on. So often the evidence is all there, it just takes a superior brain to put it all together.”

“Have you solved a cold case?”

“Two. Challenging. Sloppy forensics and file mismanagement means more time researching. Police usually give up.”

John took Sherlock’s hand, twining their fingers together. “You can say no, but there’s something I think we should do before we leave.”

“What’s that?”

John raised Sherlock’s large, fine-boned hand and kissed his knuckles.

“Let’s find the bastard who killed your dad.”

 

***

 

“I’m afraid,” whispered Sherlock as they lay in the dark. “I tried once, and I couldn’t do it.”

“We might never find out, Sherlock. But we should at least try, while we can. I’ll help you in any way I’m able.”

Sherlock let out a sigh.

“Just sleep tonight,” said John, “if you can. I’ve got to work tomorrow, and then we’ll talk about it more. Try to think about something else, all right?” He arranged himself on his back and let Sherlock drape himself over his side. John was nearly asleep when he felt Sherlock grow hard against his leg and slowly move against him.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“I thought of something else. That thing you did earlier. May I…?”

“Mmmm. Be my guest,” he said, spreading his legs wide as Sherlock crawled under the sheet. 

 

***

 

“Wow. You’ve been busy.”

John returned from work to find Sherlock at the kitchen table amid piles of papers, his laptop, and several large manilla envelopes.

John made himself a sandwich (Sherlock wasn’t hungry) and sat down opposite him.

“How’d you manage to get all of this so quickly?” John eyed an official-looking document from the West Yorkshire Police.

“The paperwork was, let’s say, expedited. It is occasionally beneficial to have a family member in government. That, and Sally Donovan.”

“So you told him then.” 

“Hmmm.”

“Do I want to know how that went?”

“He said very little, although I’m sure I’ll be seeing him soon. He hates chastising me over the telephone because I usually hang up on him.” Sherlock organised his papers. “This is the initial police report. I’ve re-read it; nothing that I didn’t know from before.”

“Can I see the death certificate?”

Sherlock pulled it from the file and handed it over. 

“And you’re sure he died of blunt force trauma? He wasn’t hit over the head with something?” John scanned the medical documents: Archibald Holmes suffered from a skull fracture, and the contusions were indicative of his striking his head on a hard surface, not of being hit with a heavy object.

“No. I’m positive he fell.”

“If someone really wanted him dead, don’t you think they would have gone to better lengths to assure he, um, actually passed away? Tumbling from a ladder doesn’t necessarily indicate cold-blooded murder.”

“I’m not saying that’s what it was,” said Sherlock, annoyed. “I believe there was someone else in that garden with him, someone who shook the ladder. Why he did it, I couldn’t tell you, but the end result was that my father fell and died. Manslaughter at the very most: loss of self-control.”

“You’re sure?”

“The flower!” Sherlock yelled. “The buttonhole!”

“OK, right. Calm down. I believe you, I do. You’ll have to tell me your plan. I have no idea how to investigate something like this. Or investigate anything, really. From what I’ve heard about your dad, everyone liked him. You don’t think he had any enemies who would want to see him dead? Or incapacitated, if he had fallen and broken a few bones or something? Brain damaged? Unable to make sound decisions for the family?”

“No. Look, John. Most murderers have motives, unless they’re completely deranged. Greed, jealousy, and revenge are the most common. Fame, sometimes. Whatever happened in that garden wasn’t premeditated. Something must have happened, something heat-of-the-moment.”

“So a long-standing dispute, maybe?” 

“He had no disputes. He had no one who would benefit financially from his death except myself and Mycroft. I checked and double-checked his accounts.” Sherlock rummaged for another folder and brought out pages of bank statements. “Here. Everything’s in order. I suspected maybe there were some debts. There weren’t.”

“Maybe he knew something that someone wanted to keep quiet?”

“Mummy indicated that there were some issues with father’s cousins. Abuse allegations. Mycroft looked into it. Turned out to be nothing.”

“Worth asking some questions again?”

“Maybe. But Mycroft is very, very thorough.”

“Okay. Hmm. Maybe… maybe it’s not a man. Maybe it was a woman? I’m sorry to ask, but was your father faithful?”

Sherlock nodded. “He wouldn’t have dreamed of it. And I’d have known. Mycroft would have known. Love affairs are nearly impossible to hide if you know what to look for.”

“OK. Um, were there any visitors that day?”

“Not that anyone took note of. As I said, Mycroft was at school, Mummy was in town, and I was...busy. My parents refused a full-time housekeeper, and Mrs. Sandhurst came on Mondays and Thursdays. He was killed on a Tuesday.”

“Ground workers?”

“Yes, but no one saw anything out of the ordinary. Let’s see. They were…” Sherlock opened a small moleskin notebook he’d used for his original notes. “Luke Simmons and Mitchell Amos.”

“Anyone looking after the horses?”

“Sam Crosby. I’m sure their statements are in here somewhere…” 

“You need a wall,” said John as Sherlock rifled through documents. “Like they do in the films. A big space where you can tack all this up and see it clearly.”

Sherlock sighed again, ran his hand over his face and pulled at his chin. He suddenly stood up, resolved. “I know just the place.”

 

***

 

It was midnight once Sherlock completed his latest rearrangement of Mycroft’s office. He’d removed a large painting of Venice and taped up (you can’t poke holes in the wood, Sherlock, no) everything he considered relevant to the case. John looked at the wall and realised there really wasn’t much to go on. What good could a consulting detective do when there was no evidence, no suspects?

“I need to think,” Sherlock said, and hunkered down in a chair, steepling his fingers under his nose. He closed his eyes. “Don’t wait up.”

“Well. Um. Goodnight, then,” said John, wondering what to do with himself. He stood for a moment, caught between staying and leaving, before crossing over to Sherlock and kissing him gently on the top of the head. Sherlock made a noise, a surprised yet satisfied sound, before opening his eyes and tilting his face up and offering his lips for a brief kiss. 

“It’s a small community,” John said from the doorway. “Someone has to know something.”

Sherlock nodded, closed his eyes.

John headed back to his own room and climbed into a bed he hadn’t slept in for several days. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up, asked Sherlock to go back and rehash the past. The police didn’t even consider it a crime, and how on earth would one man’s niggling feeling and the fact of a missing flower ever uncover the truth? 

Several hours later he woke up from a night terror, sweating and shaking. He got up, used the toilet, washed his face, and tugged on his slippers and dressing gown. It was 4am.

Sherlock hadn’t moved.

“This was a rotten idea,” John said, padding into the office. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and seemed to come back to himself. His eyes raked over John’s face. “Nightmare?” 

John nodded.

Standing, Sherlock stretched and popped his back. “It’s not a rotten idea. It needs to be done. I want to know. I don’t generally sleep when I’m on a case. Wastes time, slows down my mind. But time, I suppose, isn’t exactly a factor here.”

“Come to bed with me.”

Sherlock took one more look at his wall and nodded. 

“It’s funny,” said Sherlock. “I love puzzles. Locked rooms. Mysteries, crimes, whodunnits. Nothing stimulates my mind more. But this. This isn’t fun.”

“You’ll solve it.” John swallowed. He’d never seen Sherlock so unsure of himself. The confident swagger he’d seen at Winnicott Hall was replaced with hesitation and doubt. “If anyone can, you will.”

“You have such belief in me, John. I’m not sure it’s wise to put so much faith in one man.”

“Wise, no. But you’re the only thing I have faith in anymore, so it will have to do.” John took Sherlock’s hand, squeezed it. “Come to bed.”

 

***

 

John went to work the next morning feeling exhausted and emotionally raw. He hadn’t planned to fall in love, hadn’t planned to move in with someone, much less solve a decades-old murder. Yet, like how he’d felt with the garden, the new development in his and Sherlock’s relationship seemed right, felt right. At the risk of sounding clichéd, he supposed he felt...complete. 

Encouraging Sherlock to reinvestigate his father’s death, though, may be overstepping his bounds. He somehow felt propelled by a sense of urgency; once the house sold, a chapter of their lives would be closed: the garden would belong to someone else, and there would be nothing to keep any of them in Burnett Thwaite. John knew that if Sherlock didn’t find out now, he never would. And John knew he could do it, knew it in the marrow of his bones. Sherlock had only been 13 when Archibald died, and his mind, while certainly brilliant, surely hadn’t fully developed to its current capacity. However, the case was so emotional, so personal, and as Sherlock was always so keen to say, sentiment clouded his logic and rational thought. It wouldn’t be an easy case, or, as Sherlock said, remotely enjoyable.

The mystery of Archibald Holmes’ death was on his mind most of the morning, and he was looking forward to a quiet lunch at the local Costa, if nothing more than to clear his head.

Alas, it was not to be. For when he finally took his break, Mycroft Holmes was waiting for him in the reception area.

 

***

 

Refusing to meet Mycroft seemed pointless, although John hated acting as an intermediary between the man and his brother. Mycroft would be essential in pulling certain strings they undoubtedly would need pulled, and it was his father, too, after all. 

John ate a tuna salad sandwich and drank Perrier as Mycroft (very tidily) nibbled a ginger biscuit. Mycroft had also ordered tea -- Earl Grey with lemon-- and John could clearly see Mycroft’s distaste for the generic teabag. John wondered what Mycroft would be like addled with caffeine -- was he ever like Sherlock, all unrestrained energy? Did he ever get completely pissed, have a night out with his mates? He wondered what Sherlock would be like drunk. Dangerous, probably. Uninhibited, hopefully...

The brothers were so different from one another, with the exception of their remarkable intelligence. Lestrade had hinted more than once that Mycroft did have a more...approachable...side, but, true to form, John’s interactions with the man were never strictly social and were usually concerned with Sherlock somehow.

“I can tell by your expression that you’re thinking I’m here to chastise you for either your renovation of the garden or your relationship with my brother. Quite the opposite, actually. I wanted to give you my thanks and offer you congratulations.”

John chewed, swallowed, and looked across at Mycroft dubiously. “Really? You’re offering me congratulations?”

Mycroft nodded, sipped his tea, and furrowed his eyebrows. Clearly not his usual, which was probably grown on a mountaintop in Tibet and harvested by magical tea fairies under the full moon. 

“I spoke with him. When he’d come to London. He spoke of you constantly. I haven’t seen him this interested in anyone since he developed a fixation with the mummified body of Lindow Man.”

John didn’t know whether to be alarmed or flattered.

“Sherlock is difficult. He’s made a career of pushing people away and walling up his heart. You, of all people I believe, know something about walls. You wear your heart on your sleeve, but there’s a dark part of you that you keep carefully locked away.”

“Yeah, sure. But there’s a difference between being careful and systematically shutting off all emotion.”

“It’s difficult being the most intelligent person in the room. Add to that a general dislike of social interaction and unusual interests and you have a target for all types of bullying and torment. Sherlock learned that if he simply refused to feel, they couldn’t hurt him.” 

“Where did he ever get such a stupid notion from, anyway?”

Mycroft actually frowned, moved his cup around with his hand. “I’m afraid I might have proved a role model in that regard. I have always found solace in my own autonomy.”

“You taught him,” John huffed. “Fantastic. How well, Mycroft? Is he even capable of loving someone?”

Mycroft took another sip of his tea and stared out the window for a while. “When Sherlock was five,” he said finally, “he spent the entire summer pretending to be a pirate. He turned a laundry basket into a boat. Father bought him an Irish setter named Redbeard. Mummy fashioned my brother an eyepatch, and he loved nothing better than plundering my bedroom and terrorising the gardeners. It was his last carefree summer before he started school and the world was introduced to his particular brand of genius. I still see him that way in my mind, sometimes. All hair and skinny limbs, waving a wooden sword and telling the flowers to walk the plank.” 

John smiled.

“He’s had friends,” Mycroft continued. “As well as several... dalliances... during his university years. But I can count on one hand the people he’s ever loved. Our mother and father, me, although you’d have to torture him to admit it, and that dog. The fifth, John, is you. So when I offer you my congratulations, I mean it most sincerely.”

John couldn’t think of anything coherent to say to that, so he simply said “Thank you,” and tried very hard not to break down.

“Now. Shall we discuss this business of investigating my father’s death?”

“Is this the part you tell me to back off because it’s nothing to do with me, or the part where you assume the role of protective big brother?”

Mycroft ignored the comment and continued. “Our mother refused to listen to Sherlock then. She was mad with grief and frustrated at Sherlock’s apparent lack of it. She never said so, but of course she blamed him for what happened. I did too, for a time. Altruism isn’t one of Sherlock’s more salient personality traits. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to pull himself away for half an hour to hold a ladder.”

John could hear the emotion in Mycroft’s voice. Not quite anger--annoyance, maybe. Sadness, certainly. 

“Regardless,” Mycroft continued, “the days after his death, when Sherlock could have made the most headway on the case, were occupied with the funeral arrangements and mother simply refused to acknowledge any foul play. She and Sherlock had understood each other so well, before. Maybe she saw herself in the situation: absorbed as she always was with her studies. As I was with mine. Father always left behind -- intellectually, at least.”

“Was he unhappy?” John queried.

“No. At least, I don’t think so. He loved us all dearly, and he and my mother had a very strong bond before Sherlock and I were born. They were generally well suited for one another and loved us deeply. When I went away to school and Sherlock’s attentions turned toward research, he spent time in his garden, of course, and the rifle club, and in town. He used to do volunteer work at the library. He’d read books to children. He was an excellent storyteller. Sherlock learned that skill from him. Always a flair for the dramatic.”

Mycroft stopped then, found his teacup empty. He folded his napkin and put it on the table beside him.

“Was your father murdered?” 

Mycroft frowned. “I don’t think he accidentally fell from that ladder. Sherlock’s theories are logically sound. Should you need my assistance, please feel free to ask. Use caution, John. I worry about him.”

“His addiction, you mean.”

“It’s a dark place you’re asking him to go.”

“I’ll be there with him.”

Mycroft nodded. “My brother’s brain is his sword and shield. When in battle, everything else defers. Becomes negligible. Collateral damage.”

“Even me, you’re saying.”

Mycroft stood and looked at John. “You misunderstand me, John. A soldier’s sword and shield is only as strong as the arm that wields them and the heart that drives them forward. He needs you. Be his bannerman. Be his champion. Don’t let him lock you out.”

“And if he does?”

Mycroft’s gaze was intense. “Be the key.”


	20. Unearthing the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation continues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: New to this fic--mentions of past child abuse involving minor characters. Nothing graphic, but there nonetheless. Skip this chapter please if it's a trigger.
> 
> My betas put in a stupid amount of time with this chapter. It was probably the most difficult thing I've ever written, in terms of mystery, and I wouldn't have been able to do it (well, at least) without their help. Just two more chapters to go, my friends.

Chapter 20: Unearthing the Past

Thankfully, John was busy the rest of the afternoon after his lunch with Mycroft and was able to put his unease aside. He swapped shifts with another doctor at the surgery so he could have four uninterrupted days in which to assist Sherlock, and on his way home he stopped off at Boots and purchased two different types of personal lubricant and a box of condoms. Sherlock had promptly (and unabashedly) informed John that he was free of any “infectious or otherwise unpleasant afflictions” their first night together, but John thought he should best be prepared just in case things went in that direction. The prospect filled him with a delightful nervous anticipation the likes of which he hadn’t felt in ages.

More intimate sexual exploits were probably going to have to wait, however. On John’s first day home, Sherlock was already getting tetchy, withdrawing, staring at his evidence wall for hours at a time, unmoving and silent.

He had, however, made a list of names of the village's residents at the time of his father’s death. Several names were crossed off (deceased) but none of them stood out as persons of interest. 

John figured he wasn’t doing much good sitting around waiting for Sherlock to come to an epiphany, so he took the list and cycled into town to have tea with Mr. Chapman.

Mr. Chapman lived in a little terrace right at the end of Burnett Thwaite’s main street, across from the co-operative grocery and not far from his antiques shop. John liked the look of the cottages, with their old stone masonry and steep slate rooftops. Ivy clambered up a few of the exterior walls. John thought the village looked particularly quaint in the summer, and while he would never want to live here permanently, he reckoned it would be a good place to visit.

He leant his bicycle against the uneven stonework of the cottage and knocked on the bright green door.

Eventually Mr. Chapman opened the door and smiled. “Dr. Watson! Do come in. How are you getting on with the anatomy book?”

“It’s great. Thanks.” It really was; John had enjoyed thumbing through it. “No bow tie today?”

Mr. Chapman’s wrinkled hand reached up to touch his throat. “No. July’s my month off. Too hot. But these are snazzy, aren’t they?”

He slipped his thumbs through a pair of tartan braces and tugged on them a bit.

“They are,” John agreed. He liked the look of braces himself, although he rarely had any occasion to wear them. What would Sherlock look like all suited up? Good Lord.

“We were just finishing off. Please come in.” John stepped through the doorway and followed Mr. Chapman as he shuffled his way into the living room, where another elderly gentleman, distinguished-looking and completely bald, was sitting at a card table. “I beat him every week,” said Mr. Chapman. “But I think he lets me win.”

The other gentleman stood, albeit slowly, and shook John’s hand. “Samuel Campbell,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“We play bridge every Wednesday,” said Mr. Chapman. “Keeps the mind sharp.”

“Your honey is delicious,” said John to Mr. Campbell while taking in Mr. Chapman’s eclectic decor. There was a fireplace with a few framed photographs resting on the mantlepiece. John peered at a photo more closely: obviously Mr. Chapman as a much younger man, with a woman. Then, two pictures of men with children of their own; John assumed they must be Mr. Chapman’s children and grandchildren. To the side, a candid picture of two men caught John’s eye. Without a doubt it was Mr. Campbell and Mr. Chapman, much younger, maybe in their late twenties, their arms around each other, laughing, looking off into the distance. John was suddenly struck by a funny feeling. John knew the two men were close friends, but were they...together? His life suddenly seemed to flash forward; would that be him and Sherlock in forty years, playing bridge and quibbling about who last bought the milk and who lost the latest case notes? It made him feel a little faint.

“Yes, I know,” replied Mr. Campbell. “It’s the clover.”

“Where do you keep your hives?”

“I used to live just west of here; I gave the place to my son a few years back. Too hard to maintain at my age.”

Mr. Chapman snorted. “ _At your age._ He’s five years younger than I am,” he said, and began to pick up the cards.

“Anyway, it was too much like hard work, so I moved into town to be closer. Next to Margie,” he added, suddenly looking like he’d revealed too much.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said Mr. Chapman to his friend. “John’s sweet on Sherlock Holmes.”

John felt his face flame, but he didn’t deny it.

Mr. Campbell frowned, then shrugged as if glad not to have to keep up appearances.

“Let’s go to the garden and have tea,” said Mr. Chapman. “Then we can talk properly.”

John helped the two men put biscuits, tea, and a glass jar shaped like a beehive on an intricately-wrought silver platter, then followed them out to the back garden, which adjoined the canal towpath. Mr. Chapman had a small but beautiful lawn and flowerbeds, complete with a little brick patio. They sat down, and Mr. Campbell insisted on serving. They drank tea and ate biscuits as Mr. Chapman detailed his recent visit to the Hebden Bridge vintage fair and the oddities he’d picked up there.

“So, young man,” said Mr. Chapman after they’d finished exchanging pleasantries. “You said you had some questions.”

“Yes. We’re...well, Sherlock is...doing an investigation into his father’s death.”

“Become something of a detective, has he?”

“I told you, Jacob,” said Mr. Campbell. “He has a thing. On the internet.”

“Yes, right. Well, he has the knack for it. He always saw things other people didn’t.”

Mr. Campbell made an affirmative noise at that. “You couldn’t keep a secret from him if you tried.”

The two men gave each other a knowing look. John grinned to himself. Well, at least _he_ had managed to elude Sherlock’s detection for a little while. 

“There’s no evidence,” said John, taking the paper out of his pocket. “But he’s convinced that his father’s death is suspicious and I’m inclined to believe him. We thought we’d start by just asking some questions in town, try to work out who would have been around and might know or have seen anything.”

“Are you a detective yourself, Dr. Watson?” 

“Please call me John. And no, not as such. I’m just…” he thought for the right word. “His partner?”

“Partner!” laughed Mr. Campbell. “Is that what they call it these days?”

“Yes, I believe so. _Partner_ ,” chimed in Mr. Chapman. They seemed to find it highly entertaining. John allowed them their mirth. What was he going to call Sherlock, anyway? His boyfriend? That didn’t quite seem right.

“Well, let’s take a look,” said Mr. Chapman when he’d finished chuckling, unfolding the paper and laying it out on the table so both he and Mr. Campbell could look at it. 

“Partner,” muttered Mr. Campbell again, under his breath, shaking his head. He took a pair of glasses from his front pocket and fitted them low on his nose.

“Lydia Baron,” said Mr. Chapman, pointing to the name. “Now she was the librarian. She’s long passed away, though. Cancer. Her daughter lives in Manchester. Now who’d she marry?”

“Tim Baron.”

“Not Lydia, you idiot. The daugher. Di.”

“Oh. Right. Um, Webster. Dan Webster, right?”

“That’s right. Diana Webster. In Manchester. She might be worth talking to. She was there, I’m sure; she went to work with her mum in the summer holidays and would have heard Archie’s storytelling. ”

John wrote it down in his notebook. “Who else might have been there? When he read to the children?”

“Marjorie’s litter of brats, of course. She had four boys.”

“Little buggers,” interrupted Mr. Campbell.

“Cheeky rascals, those kids. But they loved Archie, especially Henry. They’re all off to who-knows-where, but you can ask Margie. She’d tell you.”

“Ernie’s youngest, too. Adam. He’s easy enough to find at the post office. Jackie’s dad, too, I think, used to meet up with Archie once and a while.”

“Jackie, the barman?” asked John, scribbling down the names.

“Yes. You know where to find him.”

“Yeah.” The two men gave John the list again, and he’d folded it back to tuck in his notebook when a new thought struck him. “Oh, just out of curiosity, do either of you know Sally Donovan?”

Mr. Campbell ran his hand over his bald head. “Sally Donovan. Sally. Black girl? Woman now, I suppose. Nice looking?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, yes. Ooh, livewire, that one. Clever, too.”

“Sherlock said that they were playmates.”

Mr. Chapman raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh! Yes, now I remember. Poor girl had a rotten father, if I remember correctly. Jealous of the Holmeses, for sure. Didn’t want his daughter playing with the posh boy with the brain. The two of them were at the canal all the time. Frogs, if I remember. Lord knows what they did with those poor creatures.”

 _Dissected them,_ thought John. 

“Her father was a right bastard,” said Mr. Campbell sadly, shaking his head. “Something happened, though, and they moved to the city. Were only here a few years. Whatever happened to her, I wonder?”

John wrote _Sally Donovan’s father_ in the notebook before closing it. “She joined the police,” he said. “She’s an excellent officer.” 

Both men seemed pleased with this information.

John finished his tea. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, shaking both of their hands. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“For Sherlock’s sake, I do hope you figure it out,” said Mr. Chapman, standing to say goodbye. “Archie was a good man. I’ll see you out.”

Mr. Campbell stayed sitting, but waved farewell and nodded. John decided that he liked him immensely.

“I know you’re wondering,” said Mr. Chapman quietly when they reached the front door. “It hasn’t been easy for us. We knew long ago, before we married. But then Evie died, then Susan. By then...what did it matter anymore?” His eyes grew misty and distant. “But it will be different for you, I think. If it’s right, you’ll know it.”

The tortoiseshell cat wove around his ankles, causing him to break his reverie.

“Was it worth it?” asked John.

Mr. Chapman’s wrinkled face broke into one of the most honest smiles John had ever seen. “Every single moment,” he said.

 

***

John met with Jackie Metcalf, the pub owner, since he was just around the corner. He drank an obligatory pint at the bar as Jackie recalled what he remembered about Archibald. Unfortunately, Jackie’s father suffered from rather severe early-onset dementia and wouldn’t be able to give John anything helpful. Jackie himself didn’t know Archibald well at all; he and Mycroft were the same age, and from what John could gather, most of Archibald’s interaction with the villagers was before Sherlock was born, and all of it in the summer months. 

John passed the post office on his way to Marjorie's bakery, which reminded himself to contact Owens. John had met the postman on several occasions and had never found him particularly sociable. He was an unassuming and somewhat skittish man in his late fifties. Owens had never married, and lived just outside of town. John had to pass his rustic cottage every time he came to and from town, so he figured he’d just leave a note in Owens’ letterbox when he returned to Holmes Hall.

Marjorie (Margie to her friends) was closing up for the day, but she welcomed John’s company and promised to send him home with a baguette if he’d help her sweep the floor. He did so dutifully, and when she finally hung the “closed” sign on the window, he showed her the list of people Sherlock had written up.

“Oh Archie,” she said fondly in her thick Yorkshire accent. “Yes, that man was a love.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. Mr. Chapman said one of your boys used to spend a lot of time with him?”

“Henry. Henry was, oh, I don’t know, around five or so, and he was a handful. Always fighting with his brothers. Naughty, is what he was. I was terrified for him to start school! Rightly so, too. His teacher phoned us the first week and said he wouldn’t stop pulling Jenny Porter’s pigtails. Anyhow, Archie read to the kids, you know. Up at the library. And Henry was simply enthralled. It wasn’t just picture books he read, either. No, he’d get out _Great Expectations_ and a whole group of children would just sit down and listen. To Dickens! Ha! He had this really deep, beautiful voice, he did.”

“Was there anyone who disliked him? May have had a reason to wish him harm?”

Mrs. Gant thought. She rubbed her chin with her bony fingers. “I can’t think of a single one,” she said, finally. “He was well liked, and very well respected.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have been at the house that day? Someone who may have seen anyone? There were two groundskeepers Sherlock mentioned, Luke Simmons and Mitchell Amos. Do you know where they might be now, or if I could talk to them?”

“I’m afraid Mitchell Amos died a few years ago. And I haven’t the foggiest where Luke might be. He and his wife moved ages ago.”

John crossed Mr. Amos off the list. “What about a Mrs. Sandhurst?”

“Amelia. Yes, she still lives in town. She’s in the choir at church.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Gant. You’ve been very helpful.” John helped her up; she was aging, and although she was still managing the bakery well enough, John knew that she wouldn’t be able to carry on indefinitely. John accepted the baguette she wrapped for him and promised to let her know if they came to any conclusions.

“What happened with your son? Henry?” John asked as he held the door for her.

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “You know what he did? His PGCE. He’s a primary school teacher in Cardiff.”

 

***

“Three,” said John loudly, standing over Sherlock’s prone form. He was lying on Mycroft’s leather sofa, feet propped up on the arm.

“Hmmm?”

“Three patches?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and examined his arm without moving his hands from their steepled position under his chin. “Yes. It’s a three-patch problem.”

“Jesus,” said John. “You’re a menace to yourself. Budge up.”

Sherlock lifted his torso so John could sit, and then arranged himself with his head in John’s lap. 

“How’s the thinking?”

“Circular. In need of new data, I’m afraid. Did you speak to Mr. Chapman?”

“Yes, and Mr. Campbell and Mrs. Gant, too.” He took the paper from his breast pocket. He relayed the information to Sherlock, who closed his eyes and must have filed it all away in that mind palace of his. 

“I think you should accompany me to speak with Mrs. Sandhurst,” said Sherlock. “I think she’d be more forthcoming with you present.”

“Sure.” John smoothed Sherlock’s hair away from his forehead and ran his finger over his eyebrows. “Why? Did you traumatise her in your youth?”

“Hmmm. What do you think?”

“I think you probably left all sorts of grotesque things for her to find. Sherlock, what happened with Sally Donovan? Mr. Campbell said her father was a right dick.”

Sherlock leaned into John’s touch and smiled. “Mr. Campbell said that?”

“Well, not in those exact terms.”

“It’s an appropriate adjective for him. He was a bitter man. From what I could tell he was one of those people who always thought the world was against him. He hated the country life. Sally’s mother, Gloria, was powerless to curb his drinking. I think she took her fair share of physical abuse. Sally hated being at home. We met at the library. I was sitting at a table and she came right up and sat next to me, bold as could be.” He smiled at the memory.

“Did you listen to your father tell stories, too?”

“No, he didn’t do that anymore once I was born, though I’m sure Sally’s older sisters must have had that experience. He was too busy with me, I suppose. He was an exceptionally doting father.”

“What happened between you and Sally? She’s not exactly warm to you now.”

Sherlock sighed. “Her father was incredibly jealous. Of my parents, of their privilege, of the way they didn’t seem to care that they had money. And I...I wasn’t exactly ‘normal’.”

John thought of young pirate Sherlock and his dog. _Normal enough_ , he thought.

“I could see things, even back then. Understand people, read their signs in a way most adults can’t. People see, but they don’t _observe_.” He was quiet for a while before he spoke again. “Sally and I played in town, mostly. One day at the end of the summer she invited me over to her house for supper. I met her family. I saw her father. I observed. The next day I told her what her father had been doing to her older sisters...”

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“...and how to make it stop.”

John blinked. “Please tell me you didn’t conspire to murder her father.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Murder him? Heavens no. I suggested we tell my parents and call the police. He was a bad man.”

John continued to smooth his thumb over Sherlock’s brow.

“Sally didn’t come back to the park. And when we returned to Burnett Thwaite the next summer, her family had moved to Leeds.”

“Did you tell your father?”

“Of course. But I was young, and it was a serious allegation. I’m not sure what came of it. My parents refused to discuss it with me.”

“Is it possible that your father knew about the girls earlier? That maybe they told him at one of his story sessions, maybe asked for help? Maybe he tried, or alerted the police and started an investigation or something, angering Sally’s father…”

“Miles.”

“...Miles, and he killed your dad in an act of revenge?”

Sherlock sat up and looked across the room to his evidence wall. “It doesn’t seem likely that he would do so years afterwards, but it’s worth looking into.”

“It is a motive.”

“Could be.”

 _A weak one,_ thought John. _But it’s a starting place_.

“What will we do when we find the guy, Sherlock? All the evidence would be circumstantial at best.”

“Hope he confesses? Appeal to a guilty conscience?”

“Well, he’s kept it a secret all these years. Why would he just decide to be forthright now?”

“Therein lies the challenge. To be honest, simply knowing would be better than nothing. Keep doing that thing. With your fingers.”

Setting his concerns aside, John relaxed his body and resumed his gentle stroking. “Helping you think?”

“No. But it’s rather pleasant and I’m perfectly content to lie here and let you continue.”

John closed his eyes, content. He let his thoughts wander and fell into a bit of a doze. He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but he awoke with Sherlock shifting so he could nuzzle into John’s crotch.

“I hadn’t expected this,” murmured Sherlock, nosing at John through the fabric of his trousers. “Being aroused so easily. I can’t decide if it's annoying or wonderful. You’re awfully distracting, and you smell fantastic.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Is it so different?” Sherlock asked, moving his right hand up so he could undo John’s trousers. “With a man?”

“You’re not just any man, Sherlock,” John said. “You’re...you. And you’re brilliant. Gorgeous. A bit insufferable. It’s different, yeah. But it’s good. Very, very good.”

Sherlock hummed and nuzzled and worked his fingers into John’s trousers.

“Want to take this to the bedroom?” John asked softly.

“No. Right here.”

“In your brother’s office.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

John sighed as Sherlock finally got his zip down. “Your father’s garden is off-limits but your brother’s office isn’t?” he teased.

“ _John_. Stop talking. May I?”

“OK, OK. Oh...” John let his head fall back as Sherlock took him into his mouth. John looked at the ornate ceiling before closing his eyes and surrendering to wet heat and suction.

When he could breathe again, he turned his attention to his lover. He was attempting to give a better blowjob than he had the first time, although it appeared Sherlock couldn’t tell any difference. He writhed and panted on the sofa, trying to keep his hips still (John found out he’d have to work on his gag reflex), moaning every time John tongued his frenulum. Sherlock watched the entire thing, too, eyes dark and intense. He trembled as he grew closer to orgasm, and right before he came he said, “I can’t wait until you play with my arse” in that deep, sensual voice of his. 

John shivered and groaned and swallowed him down.

 

***

 

Mrs. Sandhurst was in her seventies but looked like she still spent a good deal of time making herself ‘presentable’ every morning: her hair was stylishly curled and her soft pink lipstick precisely applied. She greeted Sherlock warmly and shook John’s hand when Sherlock introduced him as his “friend and colleague.” She led them into a small meeting room that smelled vaguely of synthetic lily-of-the-valley. 

She expressed her sadness when Sherlock told her that Holmes Hall was going to be put up for sale and recalled enjoying her employment with the Holmeses.

“Now Sherlock,” she said after a few minutes of small talk. “You and I both know you don’t do social visits. What would you like to speak to me about?”

“I want to know what happened to my father,” Sherlock said simply.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I know what your mother thought about your pursuing the matter. But I suppose with her gone now, too, there’s no harm in it. Do you really think he was murdered, Sherlock? Still? After all this time?”

“I’m not sure if ‘murder’ is the proper terminology, but I have sufficient reason to believe his death was suspicious.” 

“I see.” She looked down at her hands for a moment before mustering a sad smile. “I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“I want to know more about my father, before I was born, before Mycroft was born.” 

“What he was like? The same as you remember him, dear.”

“We think,” said John, speaking for the first time, “that maybe there was someone who wanted Mr. Holmes out of the way, or maybe was frightened of what he might know. Is there anyone you can think of who disliked him or had reason to wish him harm?”

“No!” she said immediately. “Though there were people in town who were jealous, of course.”

“Like who?” asked John, opening his notebook.

“Oh, goodness. Um, the Burnses, for one. And the O’Briens. But that was just silly; comments in church and the like.”

“My parents didn’t go to church,” Sherlock informed John.

If Mrs. Sandhurst thought that they should have, she refrained from saying so. 

“Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Sandhurst, but were you unhappy working for the Holmeses?”

She laughed at that, a genuine cackle. “Unhappy? Heavens, no. They paid well and Lilly was lovely company. It was hardly even a proper job. I was only there a few days a week. Lilly and Archie were very adept at cooking their own meals and tidying up after themselves, that sort of thing. I did cook one or two meals a week, and I always helped Lilly if there were guests. She was an excellent chef, although she truly despised it. It’s a very large house, as you know, so I did a considerable amount of dusting and polishing. That sort of thing. Lilly and I even had tea together once a week before the children were born. None of that upstairs-downstairs stuff. ”

“Did you take care of the children?”

Both she and Sherlock chuckled at that. 

“Please spare John any incriminating stories,” Sherlock said. He actually looked mildly embarrassed.

“I helped Lilly with Mycroft. He was such an easy baby! He entertained himself, always watching everything and everyone. He would play by himself for hours. But you! You were a terror, Sherlock Holmes.” She turned to John. “He was silent until he was nearly two, and then he threw the most awful temper tantrums known to man. He made a colossal mess everywhere he went. And don’t even get me started on what he got up to in the kitchen.”

“Mrs. Sandhurst makes the most delightful mince pies,” Sherlock said, attempting to placate her.

John laughed. “So, what did you do on a typical day?”

“Oh let’s see. I’d get in about 9am on the days I worked. I’d start in the kitchen, make sure it was clean, and check the list Lilly would leave for me. She usually had specific things she wanted me to assist with. In the afternoon I’d do laundry, sort the post, wash dishes, that kind of thing. After the children were born I did a considerable amount of baking.”

“Mycroft,” muttered Sherlock. “Pig.”

“And then I’d leave around 4pm.”

“And the groundskeepers? Were they in the house at all, or only outside?”

“Luke and Mitchell came in and out, sure. But they were mainly outside, mowing, clipping. They’d eat lunch inside. Lilly insisted that she would provide lunch. You’d never know they had such an inheritance if you just met them, and they were so generous with what they had.” 

“I heard Mr. Holmes used to read to children at the library.”

“Yes, of course. Quite regularly, if I remember. I used to be quite close with Lydia, who ran the library. She told me all about it, how handsome Mr. Holmes would have the little ones eating out of his palm. There’s not much to do here, you know. The children were bored, and their parents were more than happy to sit down with a magazine for a bit of peace while he read to them. Mr. Holmes opened up the world for them. He loved it, he did. Loved young people.”

John was struck with the desire to grab Sherlock’s hand, to reassure him, tell him it was all right. It was something he kept hearing: Mr. Holmes loved children. Yet he had two of his own, who, as adults, showed many signs of delayed emotional development. Perhaps he’d found babies difficult to deal with, taking an interest only when little Mycroft and Sherlock were ready to explore the world with him. 

“What do you remember of him, Sherlock?” Mrs. Sandhurst asked.

Sherlock thought. “He read to me, too. Often. And we did the garden together.”

“Was Mr. Holmes involved in the community in other ways?” John asked, trying to steer the conversation back to Mr. Holmes’ life before Sherlock entered it. John knew it had to hurt, unearthing all the old memories Sherlock had probably worked so hard on burying. 

In the choir room next door, someone began scales on a piano.

“I wouldn’t say so. But you know, they threw a summer party once. It seemed as if the entire village showed up. A real community event.”

“Do you remember what year, Mrs. Sandhurst?” Sherlock asked, suddenly interested.

“Hmm. It was boiling hot that summer, I remember. Lilly was pregnant with you. Not very far along, but she was exhausted, I remember.”

“1976,” said Sherlock.

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen at this party?” asked John.

“Not that I knew about. Then again, I was rather busy.”

Someone began singing (slightly off-key) along with the piano. Mrs. Sandhurst looked toward the door. “He’s awful, isn’t he?” she whispered.

John didn’t disagree.

“I’m sorry, boys, but I’ve got to get going.” She stood and regarded Sherlock warmly. “You’ve grown up so handsome,” she said. “I wish your father could have seen you now.”

Sherlock swallowed and said something John couldn’t quite make out.

“Mrs. Sandhurst,” John said as they walked out the room and into the nave, where choir members were assembling for practice. “Do you happen to recall if a man named Miles Donovan was there?”

She thought, but shook her head. “I’m sorry. That name doesn’t ring a bell. If you think of something else you want to ask me, though, do please call.”

 

***

 

“I’m surprised she even agreed to meet you,” John said, checking his watch. 

Sherlock looked agitated. He fiddled with his coffee cup, smoothed his hair, checked his phone. They sat in front of a large panel of windows at The Arch Cafe waiting for Sally Donovan.

“What did you tell her?” John asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but just then Sally came round the bend, saw them at the window, and gave a little nod. Sherlock stood as she came in. 

“Gone traditional?” she asked, eyeing the teapot and half-eaten slice of parkin on John’s side of the table.

“When in Yorkshire,” said Sherlock, pulling out her chair for her.

She let Sherlock pour her tea as she studied John. “That was good work on the barman,” she said, crossing her legs and sitting a bit sideways in her chair. “I’m beginning to think you’re useful to have around.”

Sally carried herself with confidence and was rather beautiful in her flowered blouse and tailored skirt, but John could tell she wasn’t exactly comfortable sitting with her old friend. Something in her eyes was guarded. John wondered if she blamed Sherlock for whatever happened when they moved away, blamed him for ruining her innocence and revealing all of her father’s sins. Whatever it was, John knew she and Sherlock would never be friends again; colleagues, perhaps, but that bridge had been long burnt.

“I was hoping you could help me this time,” Sherlock said. “I’m investigating my father’s death.”

Sally’s lips became a thin line for a moment. “How can I be of assistance?”

John ate his cake and thought it best for Sherlock to do the talking.

“My father used to read to children at the library.” 

“I know.”

“I wondered if you can tell me if your sisters went to see him.”

“Maggie did. I think Suzanne may have a few times.”

“Did they say anything about it?”

“I don’t remember. It was before I was born. I was the baby, remember. They didn’t talk much to their annoying younger sister. I remember they said he was very good, had a lovely voice.”

“Do you think either of them happened to go to a party my parents had once? In 1976?”

“I have no idea. Look, Sherlock. What do they have to do with your father?”

“Did you ever hear how my father died?”

Sally shook her head. 

“Listen. Don’t listen like the little girl you once were. Listen like the officer you are now.” Sherlock relayed his suspicions to her exactly as he had first told John. She listened intently.

“I have to admit, it does sound suspicious. But does that have anything to do with my sisters?”

Sherlock looked at the table, trying to find the right words. John decided to spare him the burden of bearing bad news.

“Why did your family leave Burnett Thwaite?”

Sally inhaled and for a brief moment looked as if she were going to stand up and leave. Instead she focused herself. She swallowed hard, then began.

“My father was an unkind man. He’s...he’s not right. He never touched me, never me. But Maggie and Suzanne. I didn’t know, I didn’t even suspect,” she continued, “and my mother refused to notice. Maybe she couldn’t deal with it. Sherlock told me.” 

John looked at Sherlock, who was still looking at the table and frowning. 

“And he told his father. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the police came to our house. Mum denied everything, said nothing was happening, that Sherlock was a freaky little boy who enjoyed causing problems and put his nose where it didn’t belong.” She cringed a bit as she said it. “My sisters said nothing. Shortly after, we moved back to Leeds.”

She straightened in her chair and took a sip of tea. When she spoke again her voice was clear and steady. “I owe you an apology, Sherlock. I convinced myself that you were wrong. That you were the weirdo they said you were. Months passed and I began to see it myself. My mother plucked up the courage to seek a divorce, and shortly after my father took off. I haven’t heard from him in twenty years.”

“Was your father a violent man, too?”

Sally nodded. 

“Could your sisters have talked to Sherlock’s dad themselves? Asked for help? Maybe at the party?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Would your dad have wanted to harm Mr. Holmes?”

“The night after the police had gone, he said that if he ever saw that liar Archibald Holmes again, he’d rearrange his face.”

“It’s not plausible,” said Sherlock finally, sitting back in his chair. “But your father is the only suspect we have so far. Do you know where he might have been in 1989? We were 13.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I really don’t.”

“Could I speak to your sisters?”

Sally sighed. “It was awful for them. Truly awful. To dredge all that up again…”

“Sally,” said John softly, “If your father killed Sherlock’s father, wouldn’t you want to know? Wouldn’t he deserve justice?”

Sally thought. “I’ll call Maggie,” she said at length. “Let me do it, please.” 

Just then Sally’s phone rang; she looked at it and excused herself for a moment, heading outside to talk.

“What do you think?” John asked Sherlock, leaning in.

Sherlock looked worried. “I think I should never want the responsibility of raising children.”

John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee under the table and squeezed.

 

***

John slept alone in Sherlock’s bed that night. Sherlock agreed to eat breakfast the following morning, but spent most of the day alone, crossing names off his list and rearranging his evidence wall. He pored over the police reports before deciding to research ladders. Around noon they both went into the garden to see if Sherlock could recreate the crime scene. Mycroft, at his mother’s request, had got rid of the original ladder (“Stupid,” Sherlock bemoaned), so they hauled out the three that Lestrade kept in the garage and tested them for stability.

“I can’t be sure without the original,” griped Sherlock. “I never paid attention to it. It was wood and opened like this one, but besides that, I couldn’t tell you how old it was or what company made it.”

“Would Mycroft know?”

“I’ve already asked. He knows no more than I do. It was an old wooden folding ladder.”

“Was it sturdy?”

“My father wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have climbed up it if it wasn’t, and the police ruled out equipment failure.” 

“It was still standing when he was found, yes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked at the ladder and climbed up to the second to the top rung, then outstretched his arms as if he were pruning an invisible tree. “Shake it,” he said over his shoulder.

John looked up from where he was stablising the ladder. “You’ll fall.” 

“That’s the point.”

“I’m not shaking you off.”

“Oh for God’s sake, John, just shake the ladder. I’ll catch myself.”

“You’ll topple headfirst, you barmy arsehole.”

Sherlock lowered his arms and turned his torso to look at John. “SHAKE IT!” he demanded.

Something in his tone ignited something within John, something dark and unruly, and he gave the ladder a good jolt, shoving it quickly forward and back. 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he windmilled about. John immediately let go of the ladder as Sherlock’s feet pushed it forward and braced himself to catch Sherlock himself as he toppled backward. The ladder clattered to the ground. John’s shoulder protested at the strain of catching a heavy body; he bit his lip against the pain and kept Sherlock from knocking both of them over.

“Well,” said Sherlock, disentangling himself. “We’ll have to repeat that. I was looking at you when you did it.”

“Nope. Not doing that again.” Feeling angry and used, John heaved in a breath and went to sit on the bench. “Fuck that.”

“Oh come off it,” Sherlock said, following, “I was perfectly safe…”

John unclenched his shaking hand and pointed at Sherlock with the other. “No, you look here. I’m not risking you getting hurt for this. Not like that. Don’t ask it of me.”

For a moment it looked like Sherlock was gearing up for a row, but then he, too, sat and folded his hands in his lap. “I’ve upset you,” he stated.

“Stunning deduction.”

“Why? You like danger. I know you do. The thrill of it.”

John rubbed his hand over his face. “Because I care about you, you idiot. A lot. And I don’t fancy seeing you hurt, OK?” His face felt hot.

Sherlock was quiet. “If I fall, you will catch me,” he said eventually, quietly, almost to himself.

“Only if I can,” John replied. 

“Then I shan’t fall where you can’t catch me.”

“If this is your way of telling me you won’t run off headfirst into danger, it’s not really working.”

Sherlock took John’s hand, wove their fingers together, and held it. John let him. They both sat there, staring at the offending ladder, both unable to express the depth, complexity, or intensity of feeling. _They would learn_ , John told himself. It would take time. 

He relaxed and focussed his attention on the look of their hands together, Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers woven between his own shorter ones. John rubbed Sherlock’s knuckle with his thumb, then risked a glance at his lover’s face. Sherlock was looking at their clasped hands, too, his eyebrows drawn together, worried. He didn’t offer an apology or try to explain himself, nor did he promise to be more careful in future. Then again, John didn’t really expect him to. Sherlock never said he would do something he didn’t fully intend to do, and John was, in a way, thankful for his honesty. John squeezed his hand a bit to let him know everything would be fine and to stop fretting. Their eyes met; Sherlock’s expression softened. 

“I think,” said John, his frustration finally dissipating, “that there are too many unknown variables. You said the ladder didn’t break and was still standing. So either your father managed not to knock it on the way down, or someone was holding it still while he fell. The fact that he hit his head and died is circumstantial.”

“I think it would be highly unlikely that he wouldn’t have taken the ladder down with him if he had simply fallen. Instinctively, he would have tried to hang on, would have fumbled for it, or knocked it out from underneath him as I did when I fell. Whoever was in the garden with him must have continued to hold the ladder.”

“What evidence would he have left behind?”

“Fingerprints, maybe.”

“What about footprints?”

Sherlock and John got up from the bench and looked at ground where John’s forget-me-nots were sprouting. “There were woodchips around the bottom of the plum tree,” said Sherlock. “If I’m remembering it correctly, my guess would be that my father would have put the front legs of the ladder here” --he repositioned the ladder-- “and the back legs here, on the flagstones. There wouldn’t have been footprints unless it was muddy, I suppose. Shoes are always excellent evidence, however. Whoever walked back here would have picked up all sorts of pollen, compost, and fertiliser.”

“But they found no prints.”

“They _didn’t look for prints_. I didn’t have the opportunity, and by the time I did, it had rained and the entire garden had been tidied and locked away.”

John sighed and checked his watch. “Let’s go in for supper. Enough for a while. I have a few people we can call tonight if you’d like.”

Sherlock looked around and, thankfully, agreed. 

Later, Sherlock phoned Henry Gant. 

“It seems that Henry Gant and Adam Owens sometimes helped my father and the groundskeepers with outside tasks and odd jobs during the spring and at the end of the summer once Mycroft was born in 1969,” he said as they made their way upstairs at the end of the day. John still kept all of his things in his room downstairs, but Sherlock seemed to find comfort in John’s presence and managed to sleep, even if for a short while, if John were in his bed. “The arrangement lasted a few years, until Mycroft was old enough to not need constant supervision.”

“So they were at the house then.”

“Yes. Henry mentioned that he and Adam especially hated mucking out the stables, but my father let them fish in the pond when they were finished, which somehow made it worth it.”

“Were they at that party Mrs. Sandhurst mentioned?” 

“Yes, although by that time they were in their early twenties and didn’t engage in any of the children’s activities. However, Henry specifically recalled seeing Sally's sisters, but not her father. It seems they accompanied Gloria, and Miles stayed behind, unsurprisingly.” 

“Have you spoken with Owens? I stopped off at his place and left my number, but he hasn’t returned the call.”

“No. Henry even mentioned that Adam would be a good person to speak with; he liked my father quite well, too. I can ring him tomorrow.”

“Fancy a bath?” John asked as Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Together?” Sherlock looked intrigued, as if the idea had never occurred to him before.

John smiled. “Yes, together, love.”

“That sounds...interesting.” 

“Well, come on. We’ll see what _arises_.” John waggled his eyebrows. “Feeling dirty?”

“That’s terrible, John.”

“You love it.”

Sherlock’s eyes went dark and took on a slightly predatory gleam. “I most certainly do,” he said, advancing. 

 

***

If it was Sherlock’s plan to exhaust his lover, he succeeded. John came twice that night, once in the bath and again sometime in the wee hours of the morning when Sherlock woke up feeling randy, broke out the lubricant, and demonstrated just how talented his fingers could be. Thoroughly shagged out, John slept like the dead and woke up at 10am, alone. 

Sherlock was back on the sofa, still in his pyjamas, where he spent most of the day, until John was so bored he decided it was worth the risk to attempt to move him.

“Have you heard from Sally?” John ventured.

“No.”

“What about Owens?”

Sherlock frowned. “I phoned him at work. He confirmed that he, like Henry, was part of my father’s story club and that he worked on the property during the summer between 1969 and 1972. He also confirmed that Suzanne and Maggie Donovan were at the summer party.”

“So you got nothing new from him?”

“No. I did, however, get the impression that the conversation made him uncomfortable.”

“I think he’s a bit scared of you,” John said. “How many times has he delivered pig parts?”

“It’s none of his business what I have delivered,” Sherlock countered. 

“It would be a good job for you, making deliveries,” John teased. “You could deduce everything.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “What did Mrs. Granderson order from Agent Provocateur _this_ week?” 

Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes again.

“Oh no, you don’t. You’ve been thinking yourself into circles the entire day. It’s time you think of something else. Let’s do something, get some fresh air.”

“I don’t feel like taking a walk.”

“Who said anything about walking?” John thought quickly for something to get Sherlock’s mind off the case. He quickly scanned the room. A painting of a water scene caught his attention. Mr. Holmes had let Henry and Adam fish in the pond when they were done with their work. John hadn’t gone fishing in ages, and suddenly was struck with the desire to cast a line, the (silly) excitement of reeling in a fighter.

“Let’s go fishing.”

Sherlock sat up and gave John a look of pure incredulousness. “I don’t fish,” he stated.

“But you _like_ fish. You’ve said so. Let’s go and catch some fish for supper.”

“How horribly pedestrian,” he moaned. 

“I saw a tackle box in Lestrade’s garage,” John continued. “And there are rods, too. I don’t know how to fly fish, but I think I saw a few standard reels. I can dig up some worms easily enough.”

“John, no.”

“Trout is excellent pan-fried. Do we have any lemons in? And some fresh tomatoes…” 

“No. Absolutely not.”

John shook his head. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll be outside.”

“It’s not going to work,” Sherlock called after him.

John smiled to himself and left.

 

***

 

“Unbelievable,” said John as Sherlock reeled in his fourth trout. “It’s completely, totally, and utterly unfair.”

“You lack finesse.”

John pulled on his fishing rod. The line was tangled _again_. “Fucking snag,” he cursed under his breath. He was still wrangling with it by the time Sherlock had unhooked his fish and added it to the string. 

“That’s it,” John said, dropping his fishing rod and pulling off his shirt. “I’m going in after it.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as John toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks. “Are we swimming now?”

“I am not restringing that damn rod.” Off went his trousers. “This bloody water had better not be too cold.”

“It will be. It always is.”

John tested it with his foot. It was actually very pleasant, the water not completely intolerable and the bottom sandy. Without much thought he waded in and then dived under. 

“Come in with me!” he called.

“You’re scaring the fish!”

“Come on!” 

Sherlock remained stalwart on shore. He looked amused, though. John treaded water and looked at him, how handsome he was with sunkissed cheeks and wind-blown hair. 

John eventually gave up and swam over to where his line was caught. He followed the line with his fingers where it disappeared under the water. “It’s caught on something,” he said, and then ducked under, following the line. He opened his eyes; the water was silty where he’d stirred it up, and the weeds obscured his vision, but the hook seemed to have caught on something other than a broken tree branch. He came up for air and plunged down again. This time he wriggled the object free and brought it up.

“Look!” he called, holding it up. “Dinner!”

He held his prize aloft: a dripping, slimy boot.

He tipped it over and shook a bunch of rocks from it. “It’s full of stones.” John examined the boot, turning it over in his hands. “The hook’s stuck in it,” he lamented. 

“Wait!” called Sherlock. “Is there the other one there?” 

“I don’t know,” said John, and was going to throw the boot towards the shore when Sherlock suddenly dropped his fishing rod and took off his own clothes. 

“Stay right there. I’ll come and get it.”

Perplexed, John waited for Sherlock to wade out to him. He took the boot and held it like a prize. 

“John, the other boot.”

John dived again and again, searching, until he actually did find it, laden with stones. He brought it up.

“Don’t empty it out!” Sherlock instructed. 

“What is it?” John asked, all thoughts of dinner having fled. “They’re just old boots.”

Sherlock turned so he was facing John. His eyes were very bright.

“These are Dr. Martens,” he said. 

“So?”

“My father never wore boots like these.”

“The gardeners’, then?”

“No. These boots would be all wrong for gardening. A gardener wouldn’t wear them. John, think. Why would anyone fill boots with rocks and throw them in a pond? Why not just bin them if they were unwanted?”

John wiped water from his eyes. “He wouldn’t be wanting them back, that’s for sure.”

“That’s the point,” said Sherlock. “Whoever threw them in the pond didn’t want them to be found.”

“Well, that’s silly. Who cares about an old pair of shoes? Unless…”

“...they connected a criminal to a crime scene,” finished Sherlock.

Together they waded to shore, where Sherlock carefully placed the boots on the grass before grasping John in a tight (if cold and wet) embrace. “This was a brilliant idea,” he said, stepping back, cupping John’s face in his big hands, and kissing him soundly, with just enough force to make John’s rather cold penis give a slight twitch of interest. Sherlock pulled back, picked up his prize, and began to trek back to the house. John was momentarily distracted by Sherlock’s bum in tight, wet pants before he realised he was being left behind. “Wait!” he called. “Your clothes!”

“Come, John,” called Sherlock, sounding more enthusiastic than he had in days. “The game is on!”


	21. Breaking New Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the rating went up. I couldn't help myself. Neither could Sherlock.

Chapter 21: Breaking Ground

John thought Sherlock was as excited about the boots as someone would be to find out he had won a large sum of money in the lottery, or better yet, a child who had just been given a long-wanted toy.

After putting away the fishing equipment, John finally reached the back patio, carrying his and Sherlock’s clothes in one hand and his catch of fish in the other. Sherlock was muttering to himself and sitting cross-legged on the stone patio in his pants, turning one of the boots this way and that.

“Get a black plastic bin bag, John,” he said, not looking up. “Empty that other boot and count the stones. _All_ of the stones, mind you. We’ll have to find something to put them in. A plastic container from the kitchen would be fine. I’m going to need a razor blade, and…”

“Sherlock.”

“...some evidence bags to put this” --he rubbed the slimy green growth on the side of the boot-- “filamentous algae in; I might be able to…”

“Sherlock!”

“...tell something about how long it’s been in the water…”

“SHERLOCK!” 

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

“You’re sitting on the patio. In your wet underpants.”

Sherlock looked down and back up again. “So I am.”

John smiled. “My hands are a bit full here. Help me out, then come and have a shower, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked.

“You’ve got pond scum on your back, love,” John said. “Leave the boots. We’ll get cleaned up and find everything you need. I’ll call Stamford and see if we can get you into a proper lab tomorrow.”

Finally acquiescing, Sherlock stood. “Footwear, John. I couldn’t have asked for better evidence.”

“Great. Now, go and have a shower.” John shoved their clothes at him. “I’ll clean these fish and be up after you, then we’ll have supper and you can tell me all about shoes.”

John appreciated the view as Sherlock left: wet, tight black pants, long, strong legs, and a pale expanse of back dotted with freckles -- and one green strand of pondweed.

 

***

John sliced a simple tomato salad and pan-fried the fish they caught with butter, lemon, and some fresh thyme from Mrs. Hudson’s patio garden. It was delicious, and even Sherlock deigned to eat, chattering away about shoes between mouthfuls.

“Granted, I don’t know what year they were made just by looking at them,” he said. “They’re old, that’s certain, but the leather’s decay would be accelerated by being submerged. I’ll have to examine the soles and insoles. The size of the shoe is a general indicator of the wearer’s height, and width helps determine weight. Tread is very important; wear patterns can reveal what type of work the wearer might have done, or if he had any particular walking habits. The heels, for instance.”

“Right,” said John. “Different wear patterns on the heel indicate overpronation or supination: high arches, flat feet, tilted ankles, Pes Cavus foot.”

“And then there’s everything the shoe picks up,” continued Sherlock. “I’m not sure how much our boots can tell us, having been underwater, but there may be clues to where the wearer had been or worked. Dirt is like a fingerprint: sediment, colour, the structure of soil particles and any biological material contained within allow me to determine where a suspect has been. I have an entire index devoted to soil samples, you know.” He tapped his head. “Up here.”

“I don’t think you’re going to get much besides pond muck off of those.”

Sherlock frowned and finished his last bite of tomato. “I think you’re right. I’m banking on the wear patterns.”

“And who’s to say that the shoes actually belong to the person who was in the garden with your dad? I mean, it’s very suspicious, but they could belong to anyone. Your family was only here in the summer. Who knows who was here the rest of the year?” 

“True,” said Sherlock. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

John checked his watch. “I’ve got to work in the morning. Let’s get dinner cleared up and you can get started. Maybe you can at least find how old they are tonight and see if they’re even from the right time period. I’ll call Stamford and if everything looks good, you can come into Leeds with me tomorrow and use the lab while I’m at work.”

A few hours after they ate, John was busy sorting rocks and pebbles. He’d laid a bin bag down in a utility room by the rear entrance to the west wing that was usually used for boots, coats, umbrellas and other outdoor wear; carefully emptied the boot; and begun cleaning the rocks of algae and sorting them into piles by size. The largest were the size of eggs, the smallest, peas. It was a simple yet painstaking task, and he was nearly finished when Sherlock appeared at the doorway holding the other boot. 

“The Dr. Marten steel-toed work boot,” said Sherlock, looking smug. “Created by Dr. Klaus Maerten and originally intended as orthopaedic shoes. Production began in 1960 at Grigg’s factory in Wollaston and used primarily for industrial wear. Made fashionable by The Who and Elton John. Frequently worn by punks from 1977 and adopted by the American grunge culture of the 1990s. Declining sales led to Chinese production in the early 2000s, although they are now currently being manufactured again at the Cobbs Lane Factory.”

“I had a pair,” said John from his place on the floor. “Two pairs, actually.” He didn’t mention that he bought them because he thought they’d make his teenaged self look taller and harder. Harry had done exactly the same. “So, could you find out when ours were made?”

Sherlock turned the still-damp boot over to show John the sole, which he had apparently cleaned. “Registered design number. Bit hard to read, but still decipherable.”

“And?” John stood up, brushed his hands off on his jeans.

Sherlock’s grin widened. “Made in 1987,” he said. “May I see the stones?”

They both knelt and Sherlock placed the boot next to its dirtier mate. He picked up a few rocks and pebbles, turning them over in his hands, thinking.

“The larger stones here are decorative landscaping cobbles,” he said. “And these bits of gravel, too. The pebbles...those are probably just from around the pond.”

“Do you have stones like that on the property?”

“Yes, in several places. They were much more popular twenty years ago than now, though.” 

“Let’s go.”

It was nearly dark, twilight fading from dusky purple to the lush velvet of night as John followed Sherlock around the property, torches slicing through the shadows, stopping here and there to examine rocks and stones. There was decorative gravel to the side of the greenhouse, but it wasn’t a match. Two more locations proved fruitless as well.

“I didn’t see any like that in the secret garden,” said John as they eventually entered the large walled garden that ran alongside of the house. 

“I know. But I think…”

Sherlock led them to the side, close to the house. “I think there were some here.” He knelt down, completely disregarding his trousers. “There was a rock garden with some cacti. My mother liked succulents,” he added, remembering.

John held his torch steady. All he saw was earth and rhododendron bushes. 

“Here? Are you sure?”

Pushing soil away with his hands, Sherlock began to dig. “This portion of the garden’s been redone, but I doubt someone carted all those rocks away. It would have been easier to move what you needed to and then dump dirt over the rest.”

“Hang on,” said John, and went to find a shovel. Luckily he’d left one in their secret garden, and thankfully he’d brought the key with him.

He retrieved the tool and handed it over to Sherlock, who shovelled with ease before the metal struck an obstruction. He got back down on his hands and knees, put his torch in his mouth, and pushed the rest of the dirt away with his hands. He worked out a stone, and then another, and another. 

“John!” he said. 

John pulled a cobble from the boot out of his pocket as Sherlock stood back up and did his best to ruin his trousers by rubbing the dirty stone he’d pulled from the ground on them. The one Sherlock had pulled from the ground was still dirty, but even then they could tell the stones were a match: smooth, grey decorative cobbles with white striations.

Sherlock exhaled a long, shaky breath. 

“Fucking hell,” said John. 

Sherlock said nothing, just stood there, looking at the two rocks until John pocketed them and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Are you OK?”

“I think I’d like to sit down,” he said quietly.

John nodded. “Let’s go in the garden.”

He picked up the shovel and together they slipped into their garden. It seemed even more otherworldly by night, the shadows darker, the fragrances more pungent. A world-between-worlds. 

“It makes sense,” Sherlock said after they’d sat there for quite some time, close together on the stone bench. “He jostled the ladder. Panicked. Realised he may have left prints. Removed his shoes, looked around and saw the stones. Dumped them in the pond, fled.”

“Jesus.”

Bats flew overhead and the moon was rising. A breeze stirred up and whispered the night’s gossip through the trees.

“Remember when I said it felt odd to be snogging in my father’s garden?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think I’d mind now.” 

John turned and brushed his lips softly against Sherlock’s, once, twice, without any intention of taking it further. Sherlock relaxed and kissed back, running his tongue just along John’s lower lip before pulling away and rearranging himself so he could fit under John’s arm. 

“You can solve this,” John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock said nothing. They stayed there until the moon was high overhead, bathing the garden with a pale, watery light.

 

***

John was exhausted on the way to work, nearly falling asleep next to Sherlock as he did research on his mobile. They parted ways at the train station, with Sherlock pulling a suitcase packed with the boots and his case files behind him.

The morning went by quickly, but his afternoon paperwork was dreadfully boring, even if it was punctuated with brief texts from Sherlock throughout. John wrapped up for the day around 4pm, got himself a latte at the cafe on the corner by the surgery, and walked to Jimmy’s. August was right around the corner, and the late afternoon heat was enough to make him reconsider purchasing a hot coffee. He had been so wrapped up in the case the past two days that he’d nearly forgotten the fact that Holmes Hall would officially go on the market in just under a week. Even if the house sold the first week, there would be enough paperwork and official business during the conveyancing process that the buyers wouldn’t take ownership for a few months at least. Both he and Sherlock felt the pressure of finishing up, of figuring out what exactly happened to Archibald Holmes. The house had always been a summer place for Sherlock, associated with long, quiet days, blooming flowers, heat. When summer went, the Holmeses went with it. 

John wondered what the hall would be like in the autumn, when the air was brisk and harvest ripe, or in the winter, when the wind whipped across the moors and fires roared in the fireplaces. He would like that, he thought. He and Sherlock, in front of a blazing fire, snuggling up for warmth with a nice brandy, maybe. Then taking everything off, watching the flicker of firelight on Sherlock’s pale skin.

But Mycroft and Sherlock were insistent that selling Holmes Hall was the right thing to do, and besides, John couldn’t see himself being happy living there permanently. He and Sherlock would fit best in the bustle of London. 

John binned the rest of his coffee and savoured the air conditioning inside the Institute of Genetics, Health, and Therapeutics building. He found Sherlock poised in front of a microscope inside Mike’s lab. 

“Hello, John.”

“Find anything?”

“I would prefer a proper forensics laboratory. But I’ve managed so far.” He led John over to a corner where his suitcase had been opened and unpacked. 

“What is all this?”

“A rudimentary forensics kit. Fingerprint powder, basic drug detection, chromatography papers, an ultraviolet blacklight, clinical waste bags, tweezers, scales, syringes, an emergency blood type testing kit, gunshot residue kit…”

“Rudimentary?” interrupted John. “Looks like Scotland Yard in a bag.”

“It makes do. For now.”

“So what have you got here?”

On the floor were large sheets of paper where Sherlock had taken prints of the soles of the boots. “Normally these images would be scanned to a computer and then analysed, compared to casts made from footprints,” he explained. “But we have no footprints so I decided it wasn’t worth the time or effort. What we can tell, however, is that whoever owned these boots was approximately six feet tall, of average weight, and horribly flat-footed.”

John studied the print. “The insole and outer sole both show moderate-to-severe overpronation. Here.” He picked up one of the papers and outlined the worn areas with his finger. 

“And whoever wore them walked frequently in them and probably followed the same daily routine. They were used for work, not for fashion,” added Sherlock.

“So our perp wasn’t a punk.” John replaced the print.

“No. My guess is that he wore DMs for years. When he wore out one pair, he’d replace them with another. If these are indeed the shoes worn by the person who killed my father, they would have been nearly three years old, so the soles were likely at the end of their lifespan anyway. The risk of keeping the boots compounded with his fear of getting caught; hence, he threw them in the pond.”

“Do you think he still wears Dr. Martens?”

“It depends if he still does the same type of work. But it’s probable. If he finds the brand comfortable with his particular foot condition, I’d say he was likely to continue to buy them.”

“Did you find anything on the shoes? Fibres, or special dirt?”

“No, unfortunately. The ink on the inside of the boot is all but faded away; there was nothing I could find that would connect the boots to any other place but the pond. There are very interesting diatoms in that pond, by the way.”

“So we’re looking for a tall, flat-footed man.”

“Who shook my father off a ladder and took his buttonhole.”

“Why? Why would he do that? Take the buttonhole?”

“Sentiment.”

“So you’re looking for...a tall, flat-footed man with a dead flower.” John raised his eyebrows. 

Sherlock shook his head. He looked profoundly sad. “Not just any flower, John. My father had wanted me to help him. I snubbed him. It would have been my rose.”

Just then, Sherlock’s phone vibrated from where he’d left it by the microscope. He retrieved it, swiped the screen and looked at the text. 

“Sally Donovan,” he read. “She wants to meet up.”

***

“Sorry, I don’t have a lot of time,” said Sally when she breezed into the Pret a Manger nearest to Leeds station. “I have to work tonight, but I wanted to touch base.”

“Did you talk to your sister, Sergeant Donovan?”

“Obviously,” drawled Sherlock. 

Sally ignored Sherlock. “Please call me Sally,” she said to John.

“John, as well.”

“Thanks. Maggie didn’t talk to your dad about what was happening, Sherlock. But she wanted to. She thought maybe he would understand or find a way to help, but she was too frightened to go through with it. I wish she would have.”

 _Me too,_ thought John. He’d seen his fair share of abuse cases while working as a GP, and it made him sick and angry every time.

“Did she tell you anything about what happened after my father called the authorities?”

“Only that my father was incredibly angry. He knew he’d been found out. He didn’t hurt my sister after that. Went after my mother instead. Maggie figured it was best just to keep her mouth shut.”

“I’m so sorry, Sergeant Donovan,” said John. 

She shrugged. “As it turned out, my father had lost his job right around then anyway, so moving back to Leeds just seemed practical.”

“But he never…”

“No, not me. My father only preyed on the weak.” Her eyes grew flinty and she pursed her lips in distaste. _She wouldn’t have been an easy target,_ thought John. 

“You hit me in the shoulder once,” Sherlock mused. “I had that bruise for an entire week.”

“I did?” Sally looked bemused. “I don’t remember that. Why?”

“I deduced your fear of snakes. And then I told you…”

“The canal!” remembered Sally. “We were playing by the canal and you said there was a snake…”

“...But it was just a stick in the water…”

“You arse!” she laughed. 

“...so you hauled off and punched me.”

“You cried,” said Sally. “Your eyes went like saucers” --she mimed Sherlock’s expression--- “and then you started crying, right there in the mud.”

Sherlock looked down at the table, ran his finger over the edge. “It hurt,” he said.

“I kissed it better,” said Sally, surprising herself with the memory. “Oh God.” 

John, enjoying this new bit of information, sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“That was a trip down memory lane I could have done without,” Sherlock muttered.

“Anyway,” said Sally, getting back to business. “I didn’t get much more out of her, except she did say she was at that party you mentioned. There was a treasure hunt. Your dad gave all the kids a list of things to find and return to him, things you could find around the estate. An acorn, a pinecone, a sprig of ivy, that kind of thing. My sister was older than the other kids, and smarter. While they all took off, willy-nilly, looking for the items, she sat down and made a plan. She worked clockwise around the entire yard and finished first. This is what she won.”

Sally reached down and pulled a book from her bag. “This is my sister’s most prized possession,” she said, putting it on the table and touching its blue cover with her fingers. “Please don’t ruin it.”

Sherlock gently took the book from her. “ _Andersen’s Fairy Tales_ ,” he read. 

He gave the book to John, who studied the cover. It was still in very good condition; the artwork on the cover (a fairy woman with long hair and a flowing gown held her hands out to catch a silver butterfly) wasn’t badly faded or worn, although the spine and corners of the cover showed signs of use. John could tell the book had been well-loved.

“We’ll take good care of it,” John assured Sally. 

“Did Maggie know the whereabouts of your father?”

“No,” said Sally, standing and shouldering her bag. “And I hope she never has to see him again.” 

“Sally,” said John, “before you go. What kind of work did your father do?”

“He was a traffic warden in Leeds.”

“You don’t happen to know if he was flat-footed, do you?”

Sally gave John a quizzical look. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Do you know what kind of shoes he wore?”

“Oh, that’s easy enough. Black boots. Dr. Martens. They were always by the back door.”

Sherlock stood and held out his hand. Sally looked quizzically at it before shaking. “Thank you,” said Sherlock solemnly. 

“Yeah, well.” A range of emotions crossed Sally’s face before settling on indifference. “No more snakes, Holmes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” breathed John when Sally had left. “It’s him. Sally’s father. Jesus Christ.”

“Maybe.”

John found his heart beating faster than usual, excitement coursing through his veins. “Let’s go after him.”

Sherlock smiled. “Not now. When was the last time you ate?”

“I had a banana at 10 ish.”

“I want to check his criminal record before we go looking for him. Let’s eat here and then head home.”

“What about you? Did you eat?”

“I had some crisps earlier.”

“I’m getting you some soup, at least.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock waved him off.

When John returned to their table with food, Sherlock had the book of fairy tales open. “Look, John,” he said, carefully picking a pressed pansy from between the pages. 

“Any significance?” asked John, taking a bite of falafel wrap. “Victorian flower language and all that?”

“Pansies usually signified ‘keeping you in my thoughts’ or some such nonsense. To think of one fondly, to care for.”

“In a romantic sense?”

“Sometimes, but not always. My guess is that Maggie picked this flower during the treasure hunt and pressed it in the book for remembrance.”

“Maybe your father gave it to her, as a token of friendship. Could it have been his buttonhole for the day?”

“No, the stems are too thin and floppy. I don’t remember seeing him with pansies. But look where I found it.”

He tipped the book so John could see.

“‘The Gardener and the Manor.’ Hmm. I’ve never heard of that one.”

“Neither have I. Then again, I’ve deleted a lot of children’s stories. Rubbish. I kept the one about the mermaid, though.”

“I suppose that’s a good one to keep.”

Sherlock dutifully consumed the minestrone John bought for him and then proceeded to read the story aloud; John took his time with his lunch and listened. Although he was reading quietly, Sherlock had a beautiful voice and certainly had the gift of modulating it for storytelling.

“ _About one Danish mile from the capital stood an old manor-house, with thick walls, towers, and pointed gable-ends. Here lived, but only in the summer-season, a rich and courtly family_.” He paused and looked at John before beginning again. “ _This manor-house was the best and the most beautiful of all the houses they owned. It looked outside as if it had just been cast in a foundry, and within it was comfort itself. The family arms were carved in stone over the door; beautiful roses twined about the arms and the balcony; a grass-plot extended before the house with red-thorn and white-thorn, and many rare flowers grew even outside the conservatory. The manor kept also a very skillful gardener. It was a real pleasure to see the flower-garden, the orchard, and the kitchen-garden._ ”

Sherlock looked at John and shared a meaningful look before continuing.

In the end, the story left Sherlock confused. The wrinkle between his brows grew more pronounced. “Who is the gardener then? My father? Or is he the lord of the manor? Is Maggie supposed to be the lotus flower that was really an artichoke?”

John opened his mouth.

“Wait!” said Sherlock, thinking. “No, the lesson of the story is about pride, isn’t it? Or is it about good people and…Or was Maggie the despised plant that was mixed in with the rare, beautiful plants?” He stopped. “What _is_ the lesson? This is a stupid story.”

John didn’t disagree. He wiped his hands on his serviette and balled it up. “Maybe it’s not symbolic at all. Maybe the gardening bit just reminded her of your dad and she liked it because of that. Or perhaps she just put the flower in randomly. That story is in the middle of the book, after all. It’s a good place to press a flower.”

Sherlock thought, then nodded. “That very well could be.” 

“My sister once got a flower press from our grandmother for her birthday,” mused John as they walked into the station, Sherlock lugging his crime-scene-in-a-bag behind him. 

“It sounds like your grandmother didn’t know your sister well,” said Sherlock.

“Ha. No. Not at all, really. But Harry did use it once. I remember. She had this friend, Nadia. Harry’s first crush. Sadly for Harry, Nadia was straight. But Nadia gave Harry this flower, I forgot what it was, something after a show Harry had done...she liked to act… and Harry had put it in that flower press. Then she framed it and kept it by her bed for ages. Maybe,” mused John, “the person who took your dad’s buttonhole did the same thing. Preserved it, somehow.”

“I’m sure he kept it. He wouldn’t have taken it just to have thrown it away.”

“So maybe he pressed it, as Maggie has done, in a book. Or used a flower press. He could have had it freeze-dried, I suppose. But if he were trying to keep it secret, he could have bought silica powder and dessicated it. Or just hung it upside down for a while, like drying herbs. It would be pretty dusty and brittle by now, though, unless he kept it under glass or in a box somehow.”

“I don’t imagine roses press particularly well,” Sherlock said. “It wouldn’t lay flat.”

“But you could do it. I don’t imagine Miles Donovan had a flower press handy.”

 

“He could have had; maybe his wife’s or his daughters’.”

“But why,” said John, rubbing at his mouth and thinking, “would Mr. Donovan want your father’s buttonhole? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. 

They boarded the train deep in thought; Sherlock carefully skimmed through the rest of the book on the ride out of town but found nothing except an inscription on the inside of the front cover: “To Maggie Donovan. To the victor go the spoils. Yours sincerely, Archibald Holmes, 1976.” John watched as Sherlock gently traced the black ink with a fingertip.

 

***

Sherlock was quiet and withdrawn when they returned to Holmes Hall. John was exhausted after getting very little sleep the night before, so he said goodnight to Sherlock, who decided to find out as much as he could about Miles Donovan. 

After making Sherlock promise to wake him should he find anything of interest, John went to sleep in his own room for the first time in a week. His bed was familiar and cosy, and he slept soundly until he heard the door open. 

“Shh, it’s only me,” said Sherlock as he slipped into the room.

“Mmm. Did you find anything?” John made to sit up but heard Sherlock shuffling out of his clothes. John moved over to make room for him.

“Miles Donovan does not use social media,” Sherlock said, getting under the covers. “I doubt he’s in Leeds. There’s a Miles Donovan in Camber Sands and another in Accrington. I called Mycroft. He can have one of his minions run a DBS check on him so we can see his criminal history.”

“Good idea,” said John, turning to his side and letting Sherlock spoon up behind him. He liked Sherlock’s solid presence, his warmth, the way they fit together. John was nearly asleep again when he felt Sherlock growing hard. 

“Feeling randy?” he murmured sleepily, wiggling his hips.

Sherlock drew him yet even closer and pressed a kiss to his head. “Not particularly. It’s a physiological response; I’m honestly rather tired. Let’s go to sleep.”

John did.

There was something about having a warm body and hard cock rubbing up against his arse that wreaked havoc with John’s dreams, however; he was dreaming all types of erotic scenarios when he awoke to find himself hard, balls positively aching, and Sherlock working his pyjamas down around his hips.

“Is this OK?” Sherlock whispered. 

“Yes,” John whispered back, wriggling the rest of the way out of his bottoms and pushing his hips back. 

“Can I rub against you?” asked Sherlock fitting his prick in the cleft of John’s arse. “Just like this? I won’t go in.”

John groaned his assent, wriggling a bit as Sherlock fitted himself between John’s arsecheeks. They hadn’t tried penetrative sex yet, but John was quickly warming up to the idea. Too bad he’d left the condoms and lube up in Sherlock’s room. He wondered how it would feel, to have Sherlock inside him, pushing into him. The other night Sherlock had used his fingers, proven that he could find and tease a prostate, and while a bit overwhelming and new, John had enjoyed the stimulation and thought anal play warranted further exploration. Sherlock clearly knew what he was doing down there, for which John was thankful. He also couldn’t wait to return the favour. For now, however, the idea of penetration was enough to light his nerves on fire, and the drag of Sherlock’s hot prick against his sensitive flesh, combined with his arousal from his dreams, had him close to orgasm already.

Side-by-side they moved together, Sherlock’s hand over John’s, tugging at John’s cock as Sherlock ground himself against John’s arse.

Sherlock’s breathing quickly grew ragged. “Can I come on it?” he gasped in John’s ear.

“Fuck, yes,” said John. He kept working himself as Sherlock reached his hand between them, pulling at his buttocks; a blunt pressure, nothing more, and the sound of Sherlock’s deep groan. Then: liquid heat. _Jesus, that’s fucking hot,_ thought John, before Sherlock’s hand was back, wet, reaching around. 

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice rough with emotion. “Oh, John.”

John twisted his head around to meet Sherlock for a messy kiss before grinding back against Sherlock once more, feeling his pleasure crest. The coil of tension in his groin released, his full testicles spurting forth into their joined hands, his legs shaking, arse clenching. 

They lay together, panting, sweat cooling on their bodies. Eventually Sherlock went to retrieve a flannel from the bathroom. After a quick wipe-down he climbed into bed once more, this time with John as the bigger spoon.

“You OK?” asked John, kissing the damp skin between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“I’m not used to...feeling...so much,” he acknowledged. “I’ve never wanted anyone before, not like this. It’s troubling. I should be researching, but my thoughts just circled back to you and I found myself unable to concentrate.”

“I’m sorry if it’s frustrating.” He swallowed. As much as he would hate to leave, maybe Sherlock needed some space. “Do you want me to go...”

“No!” interrupted Sherlock, his voice loud in the room. “No. I need you with me, here. You’re not the most luminous of people, but you are an excellent conductor of light.”

“That’s not particularly flattering, you know.”

Sherlock made some sort of grunting noise and curled in more upon himself.

“Are you still afraid?” asked John softly.

“I don’t know what is more terrifying: that I may have found my father’s killer, or that I’ve fallen in love with you.”

It was the first time Sherlock had said it aloud, and John’s heart swelled, full of emotion and overwhelming joy. 

“You're smiling,” said Sherlock. “I can tell.” He extricated himself from John’s arms and turned around. “Did I say something funny?”

John could barely see his lover in the dark room, but he manoeuvered himself so they were face-to-face. “I’m happy,” he whispered. “You said you love me.”

“Yes, well…I do.”

“I love you, too, you impossible man.” John leaned forward and nosed at Sherlock’s face until their lips met. “Let’s sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll track down Donovan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the Andersen story. I read it three times before having a reaction much like Sherlock’s. 
> 
> ANDERSEN: http://hca.gilead.org.il/gardener.html
> 
> Here are some other sites I used for research if you’re interested
> 
> STONES: http://www.buy-stone.co.uk/cobbles-c-24  
> SOIL: http://www.crimemuseum.org/crime-library/forensic-soil-analysis  
> ALGAE: https://www.rhs.org.uk/advice/profile?PID=162  
> FEET: http://www.nhs.uk/conditions/flatfeet/pages/introduction.aspx
> 
> PLEASE don't leave spoilers in the comments. Please! Thanks!


	22. The Memento

Chapter 22: The Memento

One of the worst parts, John thought, of being a responsible adult (and one who generally disliked dishonesty) was having to report to work when there were other, more exciting things to be doing, like solving a twenty year old mystery with his genius detective friend-turned-lover. He wanted to be there when Sherlock worked it out, when he finally deduced who shook his father off the ladder and why. 

He left for the surgery an hour and a half early to catch up on some loose ends he’d left the day before, told Sarah about the case, and asked if he could leave a few hours before his usual time. She was interested but rightfully curious whether John’s newfound hobby would impact his working hours. John promised he’d sit down with her soon to discuss the future of his employment.

John took the train home to Burnett Thwaite and cycled back to Holmes Hall to see a familiar red Royal Mail delivery van parked outside. Sherlock was signing for something. John waved and nodded at Owens and rode around back to put his bike in Lestrade’s garage.

By the time he made it back in, Sherlock had opened the parcel -- a thick envelope -- and was leafing through its contents. 

“What’s this?” asked John, leaning in to get a better look.

“Donovan’s files,” muttered Sherlock.

“Wait a sec. Those are his medical records. Jesus. Mycroft _was_ thorough. It’s not exactly legal, but...” 

Sherlock plucked something from the stack of papers and went to sit at Mycroft’s desk where he could spread everything out.

John took the medical records to the leather chair that he’d unofficially claimed as his and scanned through them. “He doesn’t see the doctor very often. Throat infection...elevated blood pressure...high-ish cholesterol, but nothing unusual for a man of his age and drinking habits...family history of heart disease. Says nothing about _pes planus_. Damn.”

“Wait,” said Sherlock, handing over another few papers. “Here’s a life insurance application. And a personnel file from his employment as a traffic warden in Leeds, 1974-1986. Check through these.”

John perused the documents and found nothing. “If he does have flat feet,” he said, “it must not have troubled him enough for him to need orthotics. What we really need is to see one of his shoes. How do we do that?”

“It doesn’t matter, John,” Sherlock said flatly.

“And even then,” continued John, “I don’t think Miles Donovan is the type of man who is just going to admit his guilt. Even if we did get hold of one of his shoes and prove that the boots from the pond are his, I don’t think we have enough evidence to even take him to court.” 

Sherlock sighed heavily enough that John looked up from his papers. “It’s not him.”

“Of course it’s him.”

“No, it’s not,” said Sherlock, irritation seeping into his voice. He held up a paper. “Because the day my father died, Miles Donovan was up before the Leeds magistrates for ABH. Punched a fellow traffic warden, apparently. Looks like his violent streak extended beyond his family.”

“Let me see that.” John, disappointed and incredulous, stood up and read the document for himself. “Bloody hell!” he said. He ran his fingers through his hair before turning to Sherlock’s evidence wall. There were notes taped up everywhere; he walked closer. “Donovan’s out. We don’t even have another suspect. How horribly convenient!” he said bitterly. “A man is killed and no one sees anything out of the ordinary!”

John startled as Sherlock suddenly leapt out of his seat behind the desk and strode over to him. 

“Say that again,” he said excitedly, eyes wide.

“What?”

“Exactly what you just said. Verbatim.”

John had to think for a moment, but then he slowly repeated, “I said it was horribly convenient that a man is killed and no one sees anything out of the ordinary.”

Sherlock’s face changed; he literally looked like he’d been slapped, mouth open, eyebrows quirked up. “John!” he exclaimed, “that’s it!”

“I’m not following.”

“No one saw anything _out of the ordinary_. That’s not to say that they didn’t see anyone, someone _ordinary_!” He yelled this last bit loud enough for it to echo through the room.

John furrowed his eyebrows. “You think one of the gardeners did it, then?”

“No, no! Think! There are _ordinary_ people on your property all the time! No one pays them any attention; they come and do their business and nobody's the wiser. Like the refuse collectors.”

“The dustmen?”

“No, it wasn’t either of them. They were both short, stocky types; those boots would have been too big.”

“The man who read the electricity meter?” asked John.

“I never actually saw him. But that would be unlikely.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. “No, the person I’m thinking of would have visited regularly, on a daily basis.” He raced back across the room to retrieve the envelope the documents arrived in and then bounded back. He waved it in John’s face and tapped the stamps. “The postman, John!” 

John nodded. Of course. The postman would be round six days a week, would know the habits of the people he delivered to, their daily routines, even details of their lives based on the mail they received. 

“Who was the postman in 1989?”

Sherlock’s lips pulled tight. “There’s only been one postman as long as I’ve lived here.”

“Owens?” John breathed. “Adam Owens?”

“It would make sense,” said Sherlock. “If no one answered the door, Owens would have known my father well enough to know where to find him…in his garden.”

“But...why? Why on earth would he have shaken the ladder? It sounds like everyone respected your father. Was it just an accident? Why wouldn’t he have called for an ambulance?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock grew contemplative and went to stand in front of the windows. John let Sherlock take a moment for himself before he joined him.

“What do we do now?” he asked, looking out over the wide, green expanse of front lawn. “Call Mycroft? Get Owens’ files?”

Sherlock shook his head in the negative. He crossed over to the desk on which he was keeping his papers and ran his fingers over the cover of Maggie Donovan’s _Andersen’s Fairy Tales_. “How do you feel about being a damsel in distress?” he asked.

 

***

 

About half a mile from Owens’ place, John slipped off his bike, took a knife from his pocket, and gouged his front tire. Sherlock ditched his own bike behind the ivy-covered stone wall that ran alongside the narrow road. 

“Text me if he turns up,” Sherlock said.

“You’re not going to have a lot of time. Move fast.”

Sherlock nodded, then jogged ahead. John waited five minutes, then got back on his bike and slowly pedalled toward Owens’ cottage. The tyre was flat within moments, and he had to get off and push. He went slowly, checking his watch every few minutes, listening for cars, and trying to ignore the sheep that seemed to be staring at him as if they knew what he was up to.

His phone pinged; Sherlock was in. He breathed a sigh of relief and hoped Sherlock was able to find what he was looking for. John moved closer to the cottage until he was right at the edge of the property. He had always appreciated the postman’s impressive flower garden every time he cycled into town, especially the hazy, fairy-tale quality it had in the early morning mist. But beyond that, he’d never noticed the hen house partially behind the stone house or the vegetable garden off to the side. Clearly Owens spent considerable time working outside when he wasn’t delivering the post. 

No sooner had he exhaled, however, when he heard a car coming around the bend. _Shit,_ he thought. There was no time to send Sherlock a warning text. John bent down in order to feign working on the bicycle. He looked up to see Owens pulling in next to him.

“Hi there, Mr. Owens,” said John in the friendliest voice he could muster as Owens slowed to see if he could be of assistance. “I’m afraid I’ve got a flat tyre, and my phone’s gone dead. Do you happen to have a puncture repair kit? Or could I use your phone?” 

For a moment John was afraid Owens would refuse. He looked wary, his thin face creased with apprehension, but then he nodded. 

“I might have a spare inner tube in the garage,” he said. “Come around the back.”

John followed Owens’ battered blue Fiesta down the driveway to a stone garage. He had no idea whether Owens was actually dangerous, so he decided to take stock of possible weapons in case he’d need one: there, to the left, a pile of wood with an axe driven into a formidable-sized log; rocks the size of cannonballs on the right next to the fence; a rake leaning up against the side of the garage -- all would do in a pinch if Owens got violent. What if Owens _was_ psychotic and delusional? For a moment John had a vision of him with a _Silence of the Lambs_ style dungeon under the house. 

The postman got out of his car, shut the door, and went to the back of the garage where John could see various tools and gardening equipment strewn about. It was enough time for John to get a look at his footwear: black Dr. Marten steel-toed work boots.

“Beautiful weather we’re having, yeah?” John said loudly, trying to stall and give Sherlock enough time to dart out of the house. “I was just on my way into town and I must have run over some glass or something, ‘cause next thing I know, thump, thump, thump! I was going nowhere fast.”

Owens grunted something in response and moved an oil can so he could open a cupboard. 

“You’ve got a heck of a garden,” continued John, realising he probably sounded like an idiot. “I’ve been doing some gardening myself this summer. I never knew how satisfying it could be. Getting your hands dirty, seeing the fruits of your labour.”

Owens rummaged some more and eventually produced a rusty tin containing glue and a set of tyre levers. “I don’t have any patches,” he said lamely, coming back around and holding out what remained of the kit.

His heart beating faster, John kept the ruse going. He drew his eyebrows together and frowned. “I’m afraid that won’t do it. I need to either patch the inner tube or replace it completely. May I use your phone?”

Owens grumbled “of course” and pulled his mobile from his breast pocket.

John took it; it was an older model and warm from where it had been next to Owens’ body. John didn’t actually want to type Sherlock’s mobile number into Owens’ phone, so he dialled his work phone instead. 

“Hello, Sherlock?” he said loudly when his own voicemail answered. Maybe Sherlock was close enough to hear him. “I got a puncture on the way to the shops. Are you busy? Can you pick me up?” Pause. “You can? Thanks! Bye!”

He pushed the red “end” button and gave the phone back to Owens, who was still looking at him as if he were a door-to-door salesman. “Thanks. He’s working on something, but said he’d come.” 

Owens looked like he was struggling whether or not to invite John inside to wait. John decided to push his luck.

“Mr. Owens, I don’t want to be a pest, but I find myself really needing to use the loo. Would you mind if…” He jerked his head toward the house.

“No, that’s fine,” sighed Owens, resigning himself to the fact he would have to deal with another person’s company for a while. “Come on in.”

John followed him to the door and hoped Sherlock had managed to lock it again behind him.

As it turned out, he needn't have been concerned; Owens simply opened the back door (apparently he didn’t worry about intruders and regularly left it unlocked).

“The bathroom’s to the left,” he said when they entered the neat, sparse kitchen. 

John found the room easily and locked himself in. He imagined that Sherlock would be able to tell the man’s entire life’s history from the can of economy shaving foam, toothbrush, and comb on the sink. All John saw was the evidence of a man who lived alone and somewhat frugally.

He actually did use the toilet and thought about sending off a text to Sherlock while the tap was running. He didn’t dare, however, in case Sherlock was still in the house and his text alert gave him away.

When John came out, he risked a glance into the room across from the kitchen. The small sitting room had an entire wall dedicated to books; Owens was clearly an avid reader. 

“I have beer,” said Owens from the kitchen. “Or I suppose I could make a brew?.” John was struck with the realisation that Owens had been so removed from anything resembling a social life for so long that he’d forgotten the protocols and was unsure how to proceed. 

“A glass of water would be lovely,” said John. “Mind if I sit down?”

“That’s fine.”

Owens poured John a glass of water and opened a can of Heineken and brought them both to the small kitchen table. He, too, sat, running his thumb across the top of his can of lager and looking uncomfortable. 

“It really is beautiful here,” said John. “I didn’t think I’d enjoy living in the country, to be honest. I prefer the city. But I’ve learned to appreciate the quiet.”

“It’s nice,” said Owens. He ran his hand over his thinning hair, patting it down. 

“It’s a shame the Holmeses are selling the house. I wish I had a place like that to call my own.”

Owens said nothing.

“I imagine it will sell quickly, and if all goes as planned, we’ll all be moving out by the end of August. You don’t need to worry about delivering any more mysterious packages,” John added, trying to lighten the mood.

Owens raised his eyebrows, nodded an affirmation, and took a drink.

“So what’s it like growing up in a small town?” John pressed on. “Not much to do, I take it.”

Owens shrugged. “Plenty, really. Got my chickens, and the garden. Lots of us kids around when I was young.” He thought some more, at least attempting to make conversation. “I go shooting sometimes,” he added. “At the gun club.”

“Really?” said John. “I love it. I haven’t done it in a while, but there’s nothing like target shooting, really. I learned in the army,” he added, as a conversational gambit.

Owens remained silent. John wondered if Owens kept a loaded weapon on the premises. He had several chickens to protect from the local foxes.

“Your gardens are lovely,” John tried again.

“Thanks.”

John looked around, checked a small clock above the sink and saw that only 10 minutes had elapsed. Where was Sherlock? Still in the house?

“It seems a shame,” said John, “that the blooms only last for so long. It’d be nice to be able to keep them, you know? Hang them up and dry them, or press them somehow?”

Owens licked his lips. “You can press them,” he offered, to John’s surprise. “It’s not hard.” He got up then, disappeared for a moment, and returned with a ornate metal frame, which he handed to John. Inside was a flattened thistle. “That was my mother’s,” he said quietly. “My dad gave it to her when they married. She was from Perth.”

“How delightful,” said John, tracing the flower under the glass. “The colours still look fresh. Does your mother enjoy gardening, too?”

“She died when I was quite young. Cancer,” said Owens. He took another sip of his beer. John didn’t think he was enjoying it all that much. “But she did.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“It was a long time ago.”

John thought hard; he’d run out of things to talk about and still hadn’t found a way to see the soles of Owens’ shoes. It wasn’t as if he could just walk into his bedroom and pull a pair from his wardrobe or casually ask to see them. Maybe he could feign smelling dog poo and check his own soles, prompting Owens to do the same? He saw that Owens kept a pair of wellies by the back door, but those wouldn’t have wear patterns on their soles. He’d have to try another tactic.

“You know,” he said. “Maybe I should just push my bike into town. Who knows what Sherlock is up to. He gets busy, you know, and forgets about things. My feet would be killing me by the time I got there, though. Flat feet.” He made a face.

Owens actually gave a sympathetic smile, leant his chair back, relaxed his body, and crossed one leg up over the other. “Don’t I know,” he said. “But get yourself a pair of Docs, and they won’t trouble you so badly.”

There it was: on the sole of Owens’ boot, the familiar wear pattern of the _pes planus_ foot. 

Adrenaline coursed through John’s body. He drank the last of his water and made a show of checking his watch. Surely Sherlock would have had time to escape by now? 

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Owens,” John said. “I think he forgot about me. He does that, you know. Gets tied up with something and then just…” He shrugged his shoulders. “I think I’ll just put up with the feet and push my bike into town.” He stood. “Thanks for the water. I’ll see you.” John was nearly at the back door when an incessant knocking came from the front of the house.

Owens jumped.

“Must be Sherlock,” said John. “Wonders never cease.”

Owens gave John a strange look, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had to deal with not one but two men invading his private space, before he stood and went to open the front door. John followed.

Sherlock kept knocking right until Owens flung the door open, and then he simply walked in and went right to John, embracing him in a dramatic hug. John sputtered and tried to keep his balance. 

 

“Um, hello,” he said, completely confused.

“Oh thank heavens,” Sherlock said, letting go and turning to Owens. “I thought he’d gone and got himself lost again. Ever since the accident he hasn’t quite been himself.”

John felt just as confused as Owens probably did, then belatedly realised he was supposed to play along with the charade. He and Sherlock would definitely need to work out a better communication system. 

“I do hope you brought the motorbike,” said John. “My _feet_ are killing me.” He stared at Sherlock, trying to communicate his meaning with his eyes.

“Yes, I know,” replied Sherlock, stepping yet further into Owens’ house. Owens kept his hand on the doorknob, his eyebrows drawn together in utter befuddlement. Sherlock then turned the corner and went into the sitting room. Owens had no choice but to follow.

“Mr. Owens,” said Sherlock as he began picking up various knicknacks and twiddling them in his hands, “You have lovely gardens. But I noticed a lack of roses. You really should try your hand at them. A garden seems incomplete without them, and they're not that difficult to manage if you follow a few simple instructions. Even John can grow them.”

“Excuse me,” began Owens, but Sherlock cut him off.

“I also happened to notice that you have a few loose slates on your roof. You might want to think about a repair before it begins to leak. I’d offer to help you myself if you have a ladder handy. That is, if you could hold it steady.”

 _Careful, Sherlock,_ John thought. 

“You also have an impressive library,” Sherlock continued, pacing in front of the bookcases flanking the fireplace. “Were you read to as a child? It’s been proven that being read to as a child increases not only a child’s literacy but also his creativity, ability to problem solve, and general intelligence. Your father wasn’t much of a reader, was he?”

Owens stared at the floor.

“No, not your father. But my father was. You knew that, though.”

“I want you to leave,” said Owens, his voice tight.

“Yes, you always have, haven’t you. Mycroft and I came along and ruined everything, didn’t we.”

“Get out.”

“You were in the garden that day, weren’t you, Mr. Owens?” said Sherlock, abandoning his examination of the bookshelves and beginning to circle Owens. John stood at the ready, feeling the tension in the room thicken. He honestly had no clue what either man would do. Owens was looking like a cornered animal and Sherlock had a look of manic loathing not unlike the one he had when John first met him, sweating and shaking through the discomforts of withdrawal. He couldn’t imagine what Sherlock must be feeling, face-to-face with the man who killed his father.

“Delivering the post,” continued Sherlock. “You rang the doorbell. And since I am such an irresponsible son, I didn’t answer. You knew my father was somewhere on the property, so you checked the garden. And there he was, up on the ladder. What happened, Mr. Owens?”

“Please leave.”

“He fell, didn’t he? And you were there. Did you push him? Did you jostle the ladder?”

Owens continued to stare at the floor. “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s exactly my point!” yelled Sherlock. “He fell and you did NOTHING! He died and you did NOTHING!” He took a moment to compose himself, then started in again. “Except you did, didn’t you? You threw your boots into the pond. Leather and rubber take a very, very long time to decompose, Mr. Owens.”

Owens finally looked up, his grey eyes stormy. He said nothing, but his lips pulled back into a sneer. John felt his heart pounding, wondering if he were going to have to restrain either (or both) of them.

Sherlock continued. “You left behind your boots, but you also took something with you. Something sentimental, something to remember him by. After all, you did love him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The flower!” yelled Sherlock again. “You took his buttonhole! And you still have it.” Sherlock twirled around and gestured to the walls of books. 

For a moment John was certain Owens was going to ring for the police; he looked frightened. But then, something changed in his face, fear turning to resentment. His nostrils flared like an angry bull’s.

“He always said how clever you were,” Owens said, teeth clenched together. “Find it, then, if you’re so convinced I have it.”

Sherlock’s expression faltered; John watched as the predatory gleam in his eyes faded away, almost as if he forced his emotions back so his brain could work at optimum processing level.

“I’ve deleted most of what I studied about literature. Not usually very handy for solving crimes. Lucky for me, John here is quite the reader.”

Owens turned his gaze toward John, who shrugged. He _was_ a reader, although his tastes were usually for popular crime dramas or spy novels. He’d paid attention in English literature classes, however, and remembered the gist of many of the classics he was required to read for A level.

“It would take me far too long to go through all of these,” Sherlock was saying. “I’d say you used a fairly thick volume to press it originally, or even a flower press. But you keep it somewhere special, don’t you? Somewhere...sentimental. After all, we don’t just toss mementoes under beds or into cupboards. No, we treasure them, protect them. And in your case, hide them. Let’s see. Ooh, look, you’ve organised by genre! How clever. Here’s American literature. Like Mark Twain, do you? And Hemingway? And here are some classic Greek dramas. Rather scandalous, those, if I remember correctly. No, you wouldn’t have kept it in _Oedipus Rex_. What we’re looking for is a book that _reminds_ you of him, something dealing with gardens or nature. Fairy tales? Did you tuck it away in Hans Christian Andersen, like Maggie did?”

Owens began to look pale.

“No, no fairy tales; they have happy endings, right?” He looked at John to clarify, as if he didn’t really know.

“Most,” supplied John.

“But there is no happy ending here.” Sherlock continued to inspect the shelves, his long fingers trailing over the spines, eyes flickering back and forth. “Ooh!” he said at last, “British authors. Bronte, Hardy, Forster. Austen! Now here’s a possibility: _Pride and Prejudice_. The title is fitting.” Sherlock looked up at John again: _Am I right?_

“Love story,” said John. _No._

“Or is it Shakespeare? Plenty of material about fathers in there, am I right? No, not Shakespeare. No. I don’t…”

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock closed his eyes, right there in the middle of the room, and did something funny with his hands; his lips were moving, even his eyes under his eyelids. For a moment John wondered if he were having a seizure, but then his eyes popped open and he gasped an audible “Oh!” He turned back to the shelves, scanned it again, and plucked a slim volume from the shelves, and brought it to his chest. He pressed it against himself, holding it tight, before extending it to John.

“John?” he said. “Please.”

Taking a glance at Owens, John stepped forward and took the book from Sherlock. _Frankenstein_. His thumb found a place where the pages didn’t quite meet; he opened it. There, inside, was Sherlock’s rose, flat and brittle.

“ _I ought to be thy Adam_ ,” John read quietly, “ _but rather I am the fallen Angel, whom thou drives from joy for no misdeed…_ ”

“That could be any rose!” cried Owens, his voice shaking.

“But it’s not,” said John, taking the flower and holding it gently in his hand. “It’s Sherlock’s, and the only place in the world it grows is in the Holmes gardens.”

Owens swayed on his feet; John rushed forward and helped him into his chair. He looked deflated, as if someone had simply unplugged him and he had nothing left. 

“What happened, Mr. Owens?” said John, kneeling next to him. “Please, tell us what happened.”

Owens’ pale eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them back. Sherlock moved in front of the fireplace and stared at it; John let him be.

“You should have been there,” Owens said to Sherlock at last. “He wanted you to be. I had something for him. A parcel. And I found him, balanced on that ladder trying to prune that blasted plum tree. He was up too high and the pruning shears weren’t long enough. I asked if I could help.”

“Go on,” encouraged John.

“He said you were home,” Owens said to Sherlock. “He kept going on and on about you, how proud he was of you, how you were so clever, were doing so well at school, how interesting your experiments were. It’s an unfair world, Mr. Holmes. Do you know what I would have given to have a father like yours? One who looked at me as yours looked at you? My father thought I was filth! And you were treasured. You had everything you ever wanted or needed, but you didn’t even care!”

John thought of Sherlock’s youth, those lonely hours, how alone Sherlock always kept himself, how he was teased at school, how the world really wasn’t fair. But he said nothing.

“I asked him if he needed help, if he wouldn’t mind. We used to talk all the time, you know.” Owens sighed. “I know it’s stupid, I was a grown man. But what we feel in childhood never really fully leaves. I just…” He swallowed hard. “I just...I don’t even know, just _moved_ it, just a little bit. Just to let him know that his own son may not be there, but I still was, I was there to help, and I thought he’d just wobble a bit, and I could hold it still, or catch him if he actually stumbled, and he’d say ‘thank you, Adam,’ like he always did when I handed him his paper, like he did when…” he trailed off and put his head in his hands. 

John knelt there, trying to absorb everything he’d just heard. Behind him, Sherlock was still, back to the room. For a time, the world was just three men in a flimsy bubble of pain and memory.

Sherlock finally turned and looked at John. His eyes shone and his cheeks were pink, but besides that, he had schooled his features back into that impartial mask he wore whenever his emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

“You really do have loose roof tiles,” he said quietly to Mr. Owens before letting himself out. 

John stood, took the fragile rose from his hand, and placed it between the pages of his moleskine notebook. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Owens,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sorry.”

***

They left their bikes and walked the five miles back to Holmes Hall in complete silence. Sherlock kept his hands in his pockets and walked a few paces in front; John, hanging back a little, figured Sherlock needed space. Where did they go from here? Would Sherlock call the police? Would Owens go to trial? Was there even a case against him? Was this the end? He could imagine how Sherlock must feel. Relieved, hopefully. Conflicted, probably. A day ago John would have loved to have seen Archibald Holmes’ killer locked up for the rest of his life, but after hearing Owens’ story, he wasn’t so sure. 

The man had essentially been living in a prison of his own making for the past twenty years. It’s what you do with secrets. Build walls around them, lock them up. But it’s also what people do with treasure, with things of great value, delicate things, precious and beautiful things. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be free, to cast down those walls, unlock those gates, fling them wide?

When they arrived back at the Manor House, Sherlock finally turned and drew John close to him. Had he been crying?

“I’m going to ring Mycroft,” he said quietly, lips just above John’s ears. “I’d like to be alone for a while.”

John drew back. “Are you sure?”

“I’m all right. I need to think.”

Remembering what Mycroft had said earlier, John was reluctant to leave Sherlock alone, afraid he would withdraw, maybe even harm himself.

“Don’t lock me out,” John whispered, hearing his own voice break.

Sherlock embraced him again. “Thank you,” he said by way of answer, giving John a sad smile before retreating to his room.

 

***

John, unwilling to be a whole house and floor away from Sherlock, camped out in the upstairs library, listening to the strains of Sherlock’s violin as he played on and on. Needing something to do, John first typed up the entire case, although he never intended to publish it. Then, on a whim, rang Harry. They talked for a long time, John feeling the odd and sudden need to tell her everything. When he finally told her he was moving in with Sherlock and that their relationship was now decidedly more than friends, she didn’t seem surprised.

“Well,” she said, “it’s not as if you’ve talked of anything else since you moved to Yorkshire.” John could hear the smile in her voice. 

“He’s amazing,” John said, yawning.

“You’re not so bad yourself, little brother,” she replied. 

Sometime around 2am, Mycroft arrived by helicopter, and the violin ceased. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, John finally fell asleep in the armchair. He dreamed of secrets and ladders, plums and roses, locked gardens and happy endings.

***

John woke up to Sherlock gently shaking his shoulder. He blinked, took a deep breath, and attempted to dislodge a kink in his neck. 

“Mmm?” he mumbled, running his hands over his face. “Sorry. Fell asleep up here. You OK?”

“Fine. Mycroft’s here. Owens went to the police last night. Gave himself up.”

“Jesus.” John stood up and stretched. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“I don’t know yet. Mycroft and I have been discussing whether or not we should press charges. What do you think?”

John shook his head. He was not awake enough to even begin to think about it. “It’s up to you and your brother,” he managed. “I did save this for you.” He reached in his shirt pocket and retrieved his moleskine. 

Sherlock opened it and removed the flower. 

“It’s yours,” said John. “You should have it.”

Sherlock turned it this way and that, studying it. “I don’t know, John. It’s...dead. May I?” he said, closing the little notebook. John nodded, and Sherlock put it in his trouser pocket. “Go and get cleaned up,” he suggested, leading John out of the library. “Let’s eat breakfast. They’ll be here at noon.”

“Who?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled softly at him. “It’s the 31st, John. Time to sell this place.”

Something tight gripped John’s heart and belly as they walked down the stairs toward John’s room. “It’s just a house,” said Sherlock, picking up on John’s air of melancholy. “We’ll get another. Smaller, true,” he said. “Less to keep up with. Somewhere in London, with a cosy sitting room, a kitchen that I can exploit as a lab, a place close to a park, and maybe…” --they had reached John’s room-- ”with a garden at the back. Just a little one, mind you.”

“A little garden,” mused John.

“Ours,” said Sherlock.

 

***

 

“Stop, stop! You’re going to kill the roots if you hack at it like that,” grumbled Sherlock.

John wiped his brow on his forearm and held out the shovel. “You have a go then,” he said grumpily. “Bloody thing has roots of steel.” It was a hazy-hot late August afternoon: he’d already been stung once by a wasp and Sherlock was doing little other than being bossy and unhelpful. 

He went to sit on the stone bench and cool off for a while. 

Right from the first day it went on the market, Holmes Hall had a long line of interested parties which culminated in a bidding war. Some Lord Someone-or-other offered an extra three-quarters of a million on top of the asking price; Sherlock and Mycroft couldn’t refuse the offer. 

Shortly after, John had to work four days in a row, so Sherlock went to London to look at houses. He’d put in an offer on a terraced house on Baker Street.

“It doesn’t have a garden,” he’d said sadly, “but it’s just a short walk to Regent’s Park.” He told John everything about the house in a manner he usually reserved for discussing particularly interesting crimes, and John could tell he was taken with it. John assured him to buy whatever he wanted, that it was his money and he could do with it as he pleased. John also insisted he pay rent, to which Sherlock took serious offense. They had a row about it which ended in Sherlock’s accepting John’s desire to continue practicing medicine and having his own financial autonomy, as long as John would at least attempt to consider the place theirs. (“I should hope I am more than just your flatmate,” Sherlock had said, hurt. “Damn right you are,” John had replied, and kissed the hurt away.)

They planned to move in at the end of October. 

It seemed as if everyone at Holmes Hall had a similar idea. Molly Hooper’s grandmother passed away and she resumed her studies at Barts. As for Lestrade, he found a position with the Met, where he’d be working alongside the newly transferred Sally Donovan in the Homicide and Serious Crime division, based at New Scotland Yard. 

Sherlock suggested that they give the ground-floor flat to Mrs. Hudson, and John readily agreed. They asked her about it over dinner; she refused and fussed but finally acquiesced, citing that they would need someone to make sure they occasionally had a home-cooked meal. 

But there was no garden at Baker Street, so Sherlock contacted the botanists at Regent’s Park, who were pleased to add his rose variety to their collection. That is, if they could manage to successfully uproot the bush.

John was still lying on the bench, looking at the clouds as they passed overhead when something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He sat up to see Mycroft lingering in the doorway of the garden. 

 

“Sherlock,” called John, getting up.

“I should have got rid of these...ow!...stupid...blasted...awful...ow!...thorns!”

“Sherlock, stop. Your brother.”

Sherlock stopped wrestling with his rosebush and sucked at his finger. His eyes widened when he saw Mycroft, who sauntered into the garden, looking this way and that. 

“Well,” he said, “I never thought I’d see this again. And in such vigour, too.” 

“John did most of it,” said Sherlock.

“I meant you, little brother,” said Mycroft. “You’re practically glowing.”

“It’s called sweating,” Sherlock said, sneering. “I’m not sure you’ve ever experienced it.”

“I believe I may have done once during a somewhat tense set of negotiations with the Taliban,” Mycroft replied, linking his hands behind his back. “But I really must say that this is impressive.” 

Sherlock held out the shovel in Mycroft’s direction. “It’s all yours. Bloody roses.”

Mycroft looked down his nose at the proffered shovel before walking over to the corner where the plum tree once stood. “Forget-me-nots,” he said. “Appropriate.” He took a deep breath, and for a moment John could see emotion on Mycroft’s face, relief, maybe even contentedness. He turned, and oddly, stuck out his hand. John shook it. “Thank you,” he said. “For this. Our father would have been very proud of both of you. As am I.”

“Oh please,” spat Sherlock. John elbowed him. 

“Thank you,” said John. “He means thank you.”

Sherlock grumbled something in response, then saw his brother out. John went back to his bench and relaxed. Summers really were beautiful in Yorkshire; he hoped they could return sometime, although he had to admit coming back to the hall as a hotel guest held no interest to him. Like the seasons, it was time to move on, to forge ahead, to plant new roots in new places and see what grew there.

 

***

 

The night before they moved out they were both out of sorts; Sherlock was moody and John was feeling sentimental, so they decided to break open a bottle of wine and drink a toast to Holmes Hall, to the past and to the future. After the first bottle they went skinny-dipping in the pool which led to in-pool kissing and groping; they chased each other, naked and dripping, back to John’s room, where they enjoyed a playful romp that culminated in Sherlock riding John backward on the old red chair.*** 

“It’s got come on it now,” said John in a playful lament. “We’ll have to take it with us.”

“Yes, we must,” agreed Sherlock. He looked down. “Might need to take the rug, too.”

They spent the rest of the evening saying goodbye to each room by torchlight, lingering in the library for slow, tongued kisses, or chasing each other around the snooker table in the trophy room. They crept down dark and shadowed hallways, Sherlock shining his torch over the solemn portraits on the walls and sharing his deductions about the men who stared at them, their stern faces forever preserved in oil on canvas. John listened, fascinated, until he figured out that it was all a load of bollocks that Sherlock was simply making up for their own amusement. It became a game, then, one that culminated in ‘deductions’ so outlandish and crude that they would have made the painted faces outraged, blush, or turn away with embarrassment.

Much, much (and another bottle of wine) later, they retired to Sherlock’s room. It would be the last time the tall ceilings heard John’s groans and cries of pleasure as he knelt on his hands and knees, Sherlock filling him again and again, the sounds and smells of sex blending with the night breeze and faint perfume of the gardens below. They had made their own walled and secret garden of their bed, a place where two wild, thorny, and untamed men blossomed for each other.

John would never forget the sound of his name in Sherlock’s mouth when he came, shuddering, or the way he kissed his sweaty shoulder blades as he reached down and around to bring John to his own climax. 

They slept fitfully in a sweaty tangle and awoke with headaches and sore bodies, a stressful day of moving ahead of them.

***

Everything was finally packed into removal vans. John found it somewhat reassuring that he’d arrived with a small duffle bag and was leaving with several boxes, tangible evidence that he was building himself a new life. Sherlock’s books were once again crated up and lugged down the stairs; his laboratory equipment carefully wrapped up and packed. They chose a few key pieces of furniture to bring with them (the red chair with the tartan blanket, a leather sofa, John’s bed and Sherlock’s chest of drawers).

John and Sherlock sat in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars, both quiet and pensive. Just as they were about to leave, John saw something that made him smile. He tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve. 

“Look,” he said, and pointed. There, on the ivy that climbed the garden walls, was the robin, singing her farewells.

***If you would like to read an explicit version of this scene, see the addendum at the end of the work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE for the love of all that's holy DO NOT PUT SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS! Thanks guys!!!


	23. 221B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Well, everyone. Here it is: the end of the longest fic I’ve ever written. The longest ANYTHING I’ve ever written. 
> 
> First, some thanks. To you, the readers, who took a chance on this story and stayed with me; you left awesome comments, recced me on Tumblr, spread the love around. I appreciate each and every one of you. To you, Bettyswallocks, who is a dear friend, and Canolacrush, who has become one. These two people spent hours on this fic. HOURS. They deserve a round of applause.
> 
> Second, I MIGHT be convinced to write a few “deleted scenes” from this fic, but I don’t foresee writing a sequel or anything. It stands on its own.

Epilogue: 221B

 

John was trying to figure out what to do with his socks. Sherlock had taken up all of the drawers and nearly all of the wardrobe. 

John grumbled about how many clothes Sherlock actually owned. It turned out he had three times the amount he’d kept at Holmes Hall; at least a dozen perfectly tailored designer suits, twenty or so formal shirts in shades that complimented his skin and eyes, and at least three silk dressing gowns that John had found so far. He was afraid he was going to have to move most of his clothing to the two rooms upstairs. Either that, or the three unpacked boxes full of “clothing to be used for disguise” were going to have to be relocated.

“Sherlock,” he said, giving up on his unpacking and coming out to the sitting room. “You’re hogging the chest of drawers.”

“Hmm?” asked Sherlock, who was contemplating where to put his skull. He tried the bookshelf, then relocated it to the mantle where he rested it on the antique edition of _Grey’s Anatomy_. 

“Your socks.”

“Oh yes. Please don’t mess up the index.”

“You have a sock index?”

Sherlock looked at John as if it were appalling that someone didn’t. 

“Never mind. I’m moving your underpants.”

“We can share pants.”

“No, no we can’t.” John didn’t know whether he was amused or horrified by the suggestion.

Sherlock shrugged, decided he liked the position of the skull and stepped back to show John. “How does it look?”

John took a few steps into the room and moved toward the sofa so he could see the entire effect. “Looks…like home,” he decided. And it did. He stepped forward to look at Sherlock’s bat again when a thought struck him. “Hey, what did you do with it? Your father’s rose?”

“Oh. I sent it back to Owens.”

John thought of Owens, who had, after they had left him, turned himself in to the local police. The Holmes brothers decided that while Owens had certainly been negligent, he had never intended to kill Archibald. He had already served a self-imposed twenty years of seclusion and was not a threat to himself or the community. Sherlock had intimated that Mycroft met with Owens at some point, but John wasn’t privy to the extent of that conversation, nor did he want to be.

“You did? Whatever for?”

Sherlock came up behind John and wrapped his arms around him. “Let the dead stay with the dead, John,” he said softly. “I prefer to be alive.”

 _Yes,_ thought John. _Alive. That’s what we are_. They’d come so far already together. Less than a year ago John was a broken man, empty and directionless. Sherlock was much the same, waging a war against himself. They were complicated men, men with idiosyncrasies and demons, men who weren’t particularly skilled at handling emotions or playing by the rules. But they were men who brought out the best in each other, who would find a way to make something beautiful together. 

The buzzing of Sherlock’s phone brought John out of his reverie. 

He ignored what Sherlock was saying in lieu of trying to find some food in their still mostly-empty refrigerator when he heard Sherlock shout an exuberant “YES!” from the next room. 

“Come, John!” said Sherlock, bounding into the kitchen and thrusting John’s jacket at him. “There’s been a murder! GARGOYLES!”

John shut the fridge and slipped into his jacket, leftover takeaway forgotten. They raced down the steps together, into the busy streets of London and the rest of their lives.


	24. Our Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place during chapter 22, “The Momento”. When I was originally writing The Guarded Secret, I didn’t really see a place for an explicit sex scene. So I didn’t write one. I was also under a time constraint; I had to finish before I went back to work.
> 
> However, it wouldn’t leave me alone. I wondered -- what would their “goodbye” to Holmes Hall have been like? I wanted to see more. And Scullyseviltwin, bless her, was so sweet to promote this fic that I decided she deserved a little smutty present. This is for her birthday (very, very belated). I have put a note in chapter 22 to indicate where this scene is inserted.
> 
> Thanks again to all who commented, read, and simply enjoyed this story, to those who took a chance on a premise that seems a little out there. The Secret Garden? Really? What was she thinking? Anyway, thanks. Thanks. Thanks. 
> 
> Also, thanks to my friend Bettyswallocks who reads all of my things and told me my first attempt at this was shit. Well, not shit, but she “wasn’t feeling it” so I scrapped it and started over. And Canolacrush, who spent probably, oh, 14 hours editing this. Seriously. What a trooper. Any errors you find are the result of me failing to fix something she’s pointed out.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone. Enjoy the smut.

Our Legacy

 

“Stop, stop!” John shouted, coming up for air before he was pulled under the water again and pinched soundly on the bum. He managed to kick Sherlock away, and they came up a few feet apart. “Stop it, you dickhead! I won fair and square.”

“You cheated.”

“Did not. I’m compact. More hydrodynamic.”

Sherlock snorted and splashed John again. “I’ve a longer reach than you do. You took two strokes to my one. I should have won easily.”

“What can I say?” John shrugged, treading water. “I’m practically a porpoise.”

Sherlock pouted. “A particularly small porpoise. You can’t even touch the bottom here, can you?”

John tried; he couldn’t without completely submerging his head. He frowned, then began his splash attack with renewed vigour.

“Truce,” called Sherlock after getting a direct hit to the face. He wiped water out of his eyes and swam over to John, who had retreated toward the edge of the pool. 

“Come here,” said Sherlock, the tone of his voice now gentle and seductive. John eyed him dubiously, convinced Sherlock would drag him back out and dunk him again, but when Sherlock held out his arms, made sad eyes at him, and called his name _just so_ , John found he couldn’t resist. He pushed off from the edge and crossed the few feet to Sherlock, wrapping his legs around his lover’s torso. 

John sighed and let Sherlock hold his weight. He was going to miss the pool, and he was now lamenting the fact that the first time they actually used it together was their final night in Holmes Hall. 

Everything had been boxed up in crates and packing cases; they’d spent the entire day sorting, folding, wrapping, taping, and loading until John’s shoulder began acting up and Sherlock developed a case of the sulks. They were both irritable and moody by dinnertime. John had hoped for a nice, final, intimate meal with Sherlock, but as the kitchen had been completely gutted of cooking utensils, plates, and cutlery, they were forced to go into Burnett Thwaite for supper at the local pub. 

Nothing about supper turned out to be intimate; it seemed the entire village got wind of their presence in town and had come to bid them farewell. What should have taken an hour turned into three, and by the time they made it back to the hall, it was growing dark.

It had been too early to go to bed, yet with every passing hour Sherlock grew even more fidgety and sullen. Thankfully John had had the foresight to pluck a robust Valpolicella from the boxes as they’d packed up the wine cellar. They had found two lonely, mismatched tea-cups to drink from, and John used the corkscrew attachment on his Swiss Army knife to open the bottle. They sat on packing crates in the kitchen and drank toasts to the house, their past, and their future.

Two full cups apiece improved their moods considerably, although John found the packing crate less than comfortable seating and his body growing stiffer. He grimaced as he poured the last of the wine. 

“I’ll rub it,” Sherlock offered.

“It won’t help.” John thought about the hateful blue rubber therapy band he’d binned earlier that day (it was _not_ coming to London with them). “The only thing that really helps is to get it moving,” he said. “I’ll miss the pool.”

Something shifted in Sherlock’s expression. “Let’s go, then.”

“I’ve packed my trunks.”

“Who said anything about trunks?” he said, smiling suggestively. “Let’s have a race.” 

“Oh-ho!” John said, raising his eyebrows. He’d always enjoyed a bit of playful competition, and he wasn’t about to pass Sherlock up on an opportunity to show off -- and be naked. 

They left their mismatched teacups in the sink and made it to the pool, unbuttoning shirts as they went.

John liked the look of the pool at night, the glass ceiling above them dark and shadowy, the water clear and inviting.

As it turned out, Sherlock had miscalculated that his longer reach wouldn’t necessarily mean an easy victory. They’d raced the length of the pool and back three times, and John bested him every one. John hadn’t counted on Sherlock’s playful response to being thoroughly trounced, however, and he’d been taken aback when Sherlock turned on him and dunked him under the water. It was juvenile and absolutely welcome. 

Now in Sherlock’s arms, John focused on catching his breath, simply enjoying the feel of being buoyant, the slip of cool water on his skin. He’d never been in this position before, being carried face-to-face by another man. Naked. The fact that Sherlock was a man was making itself blatantly obvious at the moment, too.

“So that’s what slowed you down,” he said, wiggling his pelvis against Sherlock. 

“It’s my rudder.”

John snorted, feeling awfully twelve. Sherlock was usually so reserved. He rarely made dirty jokes or called body parts anything but their proper names. When he did come out with something obscene or childish, it never failed to take John by delighted surprise. John hummed, then disentangled himself and stretched out onto his back, putting himself on display atop the water. “See? I think there will soon be a mast to join it,” he said cheekily. 

“Perhaps you should drop anchor in my port,” replied Sherlock, causing John to dissolve into another fit of giggling. Perhaps the wine was more potent than he’d thought. 

“That’s awful,” John said at last, swimming back over to the ledge. 

Sherlock shrugged, clearly proud of himself for making John laugh. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked.

John tested it. “Better.” 

“Good.” Sherlock pressed forward, backing John into the pool tiles and bringing their bodies together. “Let’s get out.”

“Yeah? You’re not tired, are you?”

“On the contrary,” said Sherlock, leaning in to place his wet lips to John’s ear. John shivered as Sherlock’s hand trailed down his side. “On the other hand, let’s stay in. Can I touch you?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” replied John. He found it endearing that Sherlock still asked. Something about sex rendered the man practically polite. John usually reacted just the opposite: arousal took control, made him more demanding and more likely to direct. He had occasionally enjoyed a bit of power play in the bedroom with a few of his previous lovers, but he wanted the sexual aspects of his and Sherlock’s relationship to unfold organically, and so far Sherlock just seemed to be getting comfortable with his own reawakened sexuality. 

“Turn around. Put your arms up on the ledge.” 

John raised his eyebrows. It was the first time he’d heard Sherlock issue a command. _Hello, sergeant-major,_ he thought, and quickly complied. He rested his chin on his hands as he spread his legs apart and let his body drift away from the wall and into Sherlock behind him. Relaxing, he savoured the sensation of his bollocks hanging suspended in the water and the contrast of the cool environment with the warmth of his erection. 

“That’s it,” murmured Sherlock, sliding his hands down John’s sides to his hips before running them back up again and over his nipples. John sighed and leaned into the touch. He closed his eyes as Sherlock manoeuvred their bodies so that Sherlock was directly behind him. John felt the nudge of Sherlock’s cock between his legs, and he closed them so that Sherlock was trapped there between his thighs.

“What were you saying about ports and anchors?” he asked breathily.

Sherlock hummed and brought his large hands down to John’s groin, one hand wrapping around his length while the other cupped his balls. “Not here. Just want to touch you for a while.”

“By all means,” John replied as he shivered with pleasure. “Whatever...floats your boat.”

Deep, quiet laughter behind him. “Mmm,” Sherlock hummed. “Relax for me.” 

John did his best to keep his body pliant as Sherlock fondled him. It was more like Sherlock was exploring, memorising how John’s skin felt while submerged, whether or not his flesh would respond to touch differently while wet. Long, warm fingers plucked at his nipples, smoothed down and over his ribs, worked down between his legs, tested the weight of his bollocks, the firmness of his prick before sliding down his thighs and back up. He was gentle and slow, and, true to his word, didn’t seem intent on bringing John or himself to orgasm. Nonetheless, it wasn’t long before John found his breathing speed up, a familiar ache building in the floor of his pelvis. 

“Better stop,” he said, lifting his head from his arms and turning around. Sherlock’s wet hair curled above his brow, the shadows casting his cheekbones in sharp relief. The water rippled and caught the feeble glow from the wall sconces around him. There was an underwater light at the far end of the pool, enough for John to be able to see Sherlock’s body, his long legs as he trod water, the dark ‘v’ of hair between them. John reached out and drew their faces together for a kiss. 

Even damp, cool, and tasting rather like pool chemicals, John delighted in the feel of Sherlock’s lips under his, their soft plumpness, the dip of his philtrum. John tipped his head so he could get better access to Sherlock’s tongue, which, in contrast to his lips, was hot and still tasted slightly of spicy wine. 

They kissed leisurely as Sherlock slowly guided them back to the steps. When the water was shallow enough for both of them to kneel, Sherlock took both of John’s hands and planted them firmly on his arse. John, knowing when to take a hint, kneaded the muscles and ran his fingertips over the cleft, causing Sherlock to grow squirmy and more insistent. 

 

“Are we still doing innuendo?” Sherlock asked, taking a moment to rub their cocks together, “because if so, I’m rather eager to be plundered.” 

John groaned theatrically, but something about _plundering Sherlock’s arse_ struck a loud and resonant chord with his limbic system. He mentally filed it away with other ‘phrases that shouldn’t but actually do sound extremely sexy when said by Sherlock Holmes.’ He was half tempted to haul Sherlock out of the water and go at it right there on a lounger. That was, of course, the moment he realised they hadn’t brought any towels with them, and their clothes that they’d left in a heap by the pool’s edge looked as if they had received a thorough soaking from their earlier water fight.

“You want it?” John asked, gently pressing his index finger to Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock groaned and shuddered. He was incredibly sensitive there, and John had learned very quickly how to turn his logical lover into a quivering mess. All it took was a firm but delicate touch, and Sherlock’s big beautiful brain went offline; the mind palace slammed all its doors simultaneously except for the one that contained everything he knew of love and sex, which was thrown wide open. And add in a tongue? The first time John attempted rimming, Sherlock had all but levitated off the bed.

These were good things to know when making love to the world’s only consulting detective.

Sherlock’s eagerness filled John with a sense of invincibility, an abundance of joy; it made him feel potent, powerfully virile, vibrantly alive. John pushed his finger in just a fraction, just enough for Sherlock to feel it, before withdrawing it and extricating himself from Sherlock’s arms. “Well,” he said, standing, cock stiff and bobbing before him as he climbed quickly out of the pool, “you’ll have to come and get it. Maybe this time you’ll win.”

With that, he took off as fast as he could, naked and dripping and praying he didn’t slip on the floor and crack his head open. Behind him he heard Sherlock groan with frustration before he, too, hauled himself out of the water and gave chase.

***

The old walls of Holmes Hall had seen some interesting things in their time -- political plots, family drama, the private joys and griefs of servants, a scandal or two. They had never, however, seen two grown, wet, naked, and _magnificently aroused_ men chase each other down the hallway. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson had indulged in a herbal soother before she went to sleep, or she would have seen (and later heard) things that are better left to the imagination. 

Sherlock’s long legs served him well in the chase, and although John probably could have made it to his bedroom first, Sherlock flicked the hallway lights off as he passed by them, causing John to lose a few moments to surprise and utter darkness. 

Sherlock pressed John up against the door and kissed him, but John found the doorknob with his fingers and ducked inside, sending them both half-sprawling into the room, where the game began anew. John went around his bed, then over it, laughing as Sherlock reached out to grab him. But John wasn’t quick enough; Sherlock’s long-fingered hand caught his ankle, and John was trapped. 

They wrestled together on the bed, vying for dominance. 

“You’re stronger than you look,” grunted John as he attempted to flip Sherlock onto his back.

“You’re faster than you look,” countered Sherlock, locking his legs around John’s. 

“I used to be quite fit,” said John, catching his breath and relaxing his body: game over. 

“Hhmm,” said Sherlock. “You are fit. Very fit.”

John blushed. Sherlock didn’t compliment people very often. Not unless he meant it. “What’s got into you?” he asked.

“Nothing yet, although I did think I was being fairly forward.”

John rolled his eyes. “No, really.”

Having fully caught his breath, John rolled Sherlock off him and to the side so they were face-to-face, sideways on the bed. 

“I have a low tolerance for alcohol,” Sherlock explained. “Red wine. It gets me every time.”

“Yeah right. You had two glasses. I’ve seen you knock back a few glasses of whisky without the ensuing innuendo. Are you sure you’re OK?”

Sherlock sighed. “Of course I’m OK,” he said, irritation creeping into his voice. “Why wouldn’t I be OK?”

“You’re leaving. This was your childhood home. It’s important.”

“Oh, please. It’s just a house.”

John gave Sherlock his best well-that’s-a-load-of-bullshit face.

Sherlock sighed and propped himself up on his elbow. “This room was used for guests when I was a boy,” he said. “We didn’t have them frequently, and I liked the big windows. It was a nice place to read. Quiet. Before it was redecorated it was very... pink. Like being inside a rose.”

“OK…?”

“But I won’t remember it empty, furniture draped with covers. I’ll remember it with you in it. The way you looked the first night I came to find you. I saw so much about you then, from the second you opened that door. I wanted you even then, you know. I didn’t recognise it, wouldn’t dare admit it to myself. I was still half out of my mind, I suppose.” Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and looked around the room from their vantage point on the bed. “I sat in your chair that night,” he remembered. “You gave me nicotine patches. I was so thankful I could have kissed you. I thought about you sometimes, that you’d be just downstairs, sitting there in your chair, reading. Not long after I allowed myself a glimpse of a fantasy.” 

John looked at Sherlock, whose eyebrows had come together. What was that mind palace of his really like? John supposed it was fantastic and absurd, with nothing where it was supposed to be. Sherlock probably kept sexual fantasies in the freezer and bludgeonings in the bathroom cupboard. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Mycroft had all hinted at Sherlock’s ambivalence about (and even disdain for) sex, but Sherlock, as John had discovered, did have a libido. Granted, that libido was irregular and just as unpredictable as the man himself: there were days Sherlock was simply content to bring John off and then share a cuddle without achieving his own orgasm; and then there were other times that he was downright horny, nearly throwing himself at John and whispering all sorts of dirty things ( _finger me, John,_ or _lick me open_ or _will you come on my face?_ ) that John couldn’t help but oblige. All of which were usually followed by Sherlock panting, “my love, oh, my love” as he teetered over the abyss.

Sex was closely linked with emotion for Sherlock, John realised. Selling Holmes Hall had been extremely difficult for Sherlock whether he would admit it or not; no wonder he was so keen for physical contact.

John decided to leave the conversation for later. “What fantasy was that?” he asked.

In an instant, the look of sentimental concern vanished from Sherlock’s face and was replaced by something born of desire. “Me riding you on that chair.”

John felt a little electric zing travel up his spine and down his legs, and his cock twitched in approval. “Well,” he said, feeling a little lightheaded, “By all means, be my guest.” 

“Backwards.”

_Sweet Jesus_. John barely had a chance to think about how that might actually work (backwards?) before Sherlock descended upon him, capturing his mouth in a wet and insistent kiss. 

“We didn’t pack the lube, did we?” Sherlock whispered when he came up for air.

“In my shaving kit.”

Sherlock nudged under John’s ear with his nose, licked at his neck. “Get on that chair,” he demanded before climbing off the bed and heading for the bathroom.

John heard the door click shut behind him and let out a shaky sigh. His heart was pounding, so he took several breaths to calm himself down. Never before had he had a lover whose very words affected him so much. Sherlock’s voice --so deep and masculine-- was incredibly arousing, and the things he said when he was in the mood -- dirty things, frankly honest things, even clinical things -- affected John more than any feminine moans and whimpers ever had. 

On shaky legs, John made his way to the red padded chair and sat; it was a bit cold under his bare backside, so he pulled the old tartan blanket off the back, slung it over the chair, and sat back down. He looked down at his lap, at the curving scar on his leg. He traced it with his fingers, and then took himself in hand for a few leisurely moments of self-pleasure. 

They hadn’t done it in a chair before, unless you count the blowjobs they’d given each other on Mycroft’s sofa. So far their episodes of penetrative sex were limited to the bedroom. Sherlock didn’t speak much of his sexual history, but from what John could gather it was limited and experimental. Either that, or done in exchange for drugs. Sickened at the prospect of anyone causing the man he loved harm or using him, John vowed to make every time they had sex meaningful, loving, nurturing, and safe. (At least, John figured, until they had reached a point where they’d grown comfortable communicating their needs and desires with one another.) So, sex had been in a safe and cosy bed, where afterward they could lie entwined, breathing each other’s air and holding on to one another, two men clinging to driftwood in an ocean.

It was good, too. Very, very good. 

John figured they had plenty of time for adrenaline-fueled, up-against-the-wall sex, break-the-kitchen-table sex, or drench-the-floor bathtub sex. 

Halfway through wondering if both of them could fit into the bathtub at 221b Baker Street, the bathroom door opened and Sherlock strode out, still gloriously hard. 

“Open your legs,” he said. “Yes. Like that.”

John complied. “Do you want me to…?” He looked for the lube but didn’t see it.

“No,” said Sherlock, kneeling in front of him. “But I wouldn’t mind getting you wet first. It’s half the fun.”

Closing his eyes, John sighed as Sherlock took him in his mouth, deep, enough to trigger his gag reflex and produce an influx of saliva, which he left there as he pulled off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“There.” Sherlock smiled. It was dark and a little sinister. “Close them now.” He tapped John’s knee gently.

John did so, his heart beating triple time. Sherlock got to his feet. “Watch me,” he said. “Watch everything.” And then he turned around, felt for the arms of the chair with his hands, and tucked his shins up on either side of John’s thighs. He made the awkward move look graceful, acrobatic, even, and then he leaned forward. “Watch,” he said, voice less commanding and more needy than it had been before. “Watch as you go in. Relax if you can.”

John, like any man, he supposed, had always fancied the look of erotic poses. Once, long ago during his first year of university, some of the girls on his floor had got a hold of a version of the _Kama Sutra_ illustrated with gorgeous photography. It’d ended up in the room of a girl he’d been regularly studying (and having casual sex) with. They drank several pints, tried several poses, and gave it all up in favour of their old standby (her-on-top). The images had stayed with him long after the girl had: bodies purposefully posed for pleasure, but also for aesthetics. A still picture was just as arousing to him as a video. An intimate moment, frozen forever. 

Now that he was with Sherlock, sometimes he enjoyed closing his eyes or turning off all the lights, giving his other senses a chance to indulge in the feel of skin on skin, the scent of sex-musk, the sounds of exertion. Sometimes he had to shut his eyes against emotion; sometimes he had to force back tears that threatened to spill out and run down the sides of his face and into his ears. He was, after all, madly, deeply, and wholly in love with Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock Holmes, who, apparently, knew how to fold himself into a chair, backward, on top of his lover.

And the _view_.

John had always appreciated the line of a strong back; Sherlock’s was longer and stronger than any woman’s. And he’d always appreciated the curvature of the gluteus maximus; Sherlock’s arse was beautifully made. But what lay between those rounded cheeks...Good God. Sherlock _had_ prepared himself; his puckered arsehole shiny-wet, the dark hairs surrounding it slicked to his skin. John breathed in and held it for a few seconds to calm himself down before taking his own wet cock in his left hand and rubbing the glans gently over it.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. He meant it. His nimble doctor’s fingers had always seemed to migrate to that hot, damp spot between the arsecheeks of his former lovers. Some swatted his hand away; other, more adventurous ladies had been more willing to let John lead them into new, uncharted territory. A handful of his former lovers had straight-up asked for it. No matter his partner, though, he always felt there was something slightly kinky about anal play that aroused him to no end. The anus was more stubborn than the yielding vaginal opening; it was less slick, the tissue and muscle felt different under the tongue. And even the most freshly-showered bum still held a unique, dark and earthy fragrance, one that when he was in the mood John’s brain registered as a powerful aphrodisiac. There was also something very sexy in being trusted, knowing that his partner trusted him enough to touch, much less penetrate, such a sensitive and intimate spot. 

Yet Sherlock was no woman. John had seen plenty of men’s undercarriages in his profession and approached each and every one with clinical detachment. His one encounter with Murray was nothing more than frantic frottage (although, admittedly, he would have done much more had time and destiny allowed). He hadn’t even been sure Sherlock would be interested in the idea, and he hadn’t wanted to be presumptuous. 

However it didn’t take long into their new relationship before Sherlock had reached for John’s hand during a blowjob and placed it on his backside. “I love it,” he’d said breathlessly. “Touch it. Please.” John nearly came just from the words alone.

It had been beautiful then, and it was still beautiful now several months into their life as lovers: Sherlock in his lap, poised above him, the cleft of his arse wet and inviting. Above him, Sherlock shivered and wiggled his hips. John took the hint, lined himself up, and gently guided Sherlock down. 

“Watch,” said Sherlock again as the head of John’s cock nudged his hole, and so John did; he watched as the thickness of his prick stretched the muscle, as the shaft disappeared into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s breath left him in a great huff, and John heard him groan softly.

“You OK?” he asked as Sherlock fully seated himself.

“Brilliant,” he said, voice deep and husky. 

“I’m not sure I can move much like this,” said John, running his palms up Sherlock’s sides and down again. 

“You don’t need to. Just enjoy yourself.”

“Do you want me to touch you?”

Sherlock rearranged himself a bit in the chair, shifting to find the right angle. “Can you put your hands on my hips?” he asked. “Yes, just like that.”

He loved the feel of Sherlock’s hip bones, the skin warm under his palms. Sometimes Sherlock liked a rougher touch, liked to be gripped firmly by those hips while taking it from behind. For now, John kept his touch gentle as Sherlock began to move above him.

‘Move’ was perhaps the wrong word. ‘Undulated’ would have been more accurate. ‘Danced,’ even. What started as slow circles quickly graduated to a slow but thorough grinding. Unable to get much leverage in the chair, John tried to stay still as Sherlock took his pleasure.

“Are you watching, John?”

“Yes, love.” He was. He was watching a fine sheen of sweat form on Sherlock’s back, watching the muscles of his arms stand out as he gripped the chair, watching the hair on the back of his neck begin to dampen and curl. He was most definitely watching the place where their bodies were joined, quick glimpses of his own cock as it was once and once again lost into Sherlock’s tight heat. “I’m watching. Jesus. I wish you could see this.”

“Tell me what you see.”

John shivered. He felt odd, all of a sudden, so full of love and lust that it swelled up against his ribcage, his senses overwhelmed. He licked his lips and whispered, “I see us. Together.”

“What does it look like? Describe it to me.”

“Oh God.” John breathed out as Sherlock lifted up a bit only to come back down and move his hips in a slow circle. “Your arse, Sherlock. Jesus. Move back up a bit, yeah, like that. Can I touch it?”

Sherlock hummed in assent, and John insinuated his hand between them so he could gently trace the tight, stretched rim of Sherlock’s hole. “That’s,” he said, trying to find the right words, “that’s fucking perfect. I’m in you. Just the way it looks...it makes _me_ look, the way that beautiful little hole of yours takes me...you’re all stretched out like that...like I’m _huge_ …” The last word gusted out from between his lips as Sherlock moved again. “It’s all slippery, love. It looks...wet...it looks like a video and feels like...Heaven. Fuck, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” whispered Sherlock. “Yes.”

“Are you still OK?” The position must be hard on Sherlock’s legs, which were doing most of the work. In his position in the chair, John couldn’t even get enough leverage to thrust up with much force. Not that it mattered. Just being inside Sherlock, feeling his weight and watching their bodies together was enough to start him on the path to orgasm.

Sherlock lifted his hand from the arm of the chair. He must have touched himself for the hand returned, wet and slippery, to John’s thigh. “I’m practically dripping,” he said, panting now. “Phenomenal...prostate...unh...stimulation.” 

John heard himself groan. He wished he had a mirror; he wished he could record it from the front so he could see Sherlock’s slender, perfect cock, so he could see their bollocks pressed together. 

“Can you come this way?” John asked, running his hands over Sherlock’s back again. He wanted to reach around and pinch his nipples, but Sherlock had now shifted forward, bracing his forearms on his legs.

“Yes,” he replied, panting. He was truly working now, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. John could smell him, too, the somewhat metallic tang of clean sweat mingled with chlorine and sex musk. “I can feel you _everywhere_ ,” Sherlock breathed. “God, John.” 

John smiled to himself, gripped Sherlock again by the hips. “Is it as good as the fantasy?” 

Sherlock’s legs had begun to twitch. He grunted something that John took as an affirmative.

“And how did it end?” he asked.

“I...I...don’t know. I never let myself finish.”

“Pity, that. I want a mirror. I want to see from the front. God, I bet you look amazing. I want to see you come. It’s lovely, you know. Watching you. Watching you let go. Jesus, Sherlock, I’m...I’m almost there.”

“John…”

“Yes, love, that’s it.”

“It’s so...it’s so...oh God…” Sherlock trailed off, unable to speak through his gasps and moans. His voice suddenly rose an octave, groans becoming keens and whispers, before he arced up and back. “Hand!” he gasped. John reached forward with his left hand; Sherlock grabbed it and folded it around his cock. “Now!” he groaned, “yes, oh, oh!” John pumped just twice before it began to pulse and spurt.

John felt Sherlock’s orgasm around his own cock, the internal muscles fluttering against his frenulum, the rim rhythmically contracting around his shaft.

It was enough to send him over the edge, and he pushed himself down into the cushion of the chair just to get enough leverage to thrust a handful of times, and then he, too, came, the powerful orgasm washing over him. He heard himself grunting, a raw, animalistic sound, and he barely registered holding onto Sherlock to stop him from toppling right off his lap and out of the chair.

It left him gasping, trembling and weak, body utterly spent and heart overflowing with a deep and profound love for the man on his lap. Maybe it was the novel position or the fact he was already feeling overly sentimental, but whatever the cause, he felt so deeply grateful, so amazed that of all the people on the planet, Sherlock chose to share not only his friendship but also his body and heart with him. Sex only seemed to amplify the emotion, his orgasm not just a physical release of hormones and semen, but an outpouring of all those complex and nebulous emotions he usually kept carefully in check. It was a relief, really, to finally be able to let go, to love freely, and to be loved in return. 

Once he could think again, he shifted in his chair only to find it wet. “It’s got come on it now,” he said in playful lament. “We’ll have to take it with us.”

“Yes, we must,” agreed Sherlock. He looked down. “Might need to take the rug, too.”

Exhausted, John let his head fall back against the chair. “Jesus,” he said. “Sherlock, that was...that was...Jesus.”

“Happy to have rendered you speechless. However, I’ve got cramp in my feet.”

“Oh God,” said John, pulling his head from the back of the chair and feeling instantly contrite. “Sorry. Here, just...hang on…let me...”

Sherlock gingerly lifted himself from John’s lap, John shuddering a bit as his penis slipped free from Sherlock’s arse and fell wetly against his thigh. He let his head fall back again.

Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair and stood before walking around and kissing John on his upturned forehead. He attempted to walk to the bathroom, but wobbled on his second step, prompting John to abandon his post-coital bonelessness and quickly come to his lover’s side. “You OK there?”

“Actually, I think I might need a minute.”

“Have you finally worn yourself out?”

“Never.” Sherlock smiled. “Just a bit of pins and needles.”

“Come on. We’ll clean up in a bit. Let’s lie down for a while.” 

Sherlock looked longingly at the bathroom door. 

“Just for a minute, love. You can wash later. I can barely stand.”

Together they limped their way to the bed, where they wriggled in under the covers facing each other. John, feeling dopey and lovestruck, leaned forward and rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s.

“Stop that,” said Sherlock.

“You love it.”

“Do not. Tickles.”

“Do too.” Sherlock made a show out of tolerating the nuzzling before flopping over onto his back. 

“I’d ask you where you learned how to do that,” said John, nodding in the abused chair’s direction. “But I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Books,” shrugged Sherlock. 

John raised his eyebrows. “Pornography?”

“Manuals. Beginner’s guides. _Sex for Dummies._ ”

John snorted a laugh. “You wouldn’t read that if you were paid to. And that was undoubtedly _not_ beginner’s sex.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I find printed text more stimulating than visual media. The brain is the biggest sex organ,” he added.

John couldn’t disagree. Yet if Sherlock’s brain were his biggest sex organ, there was no way for John to compare. He wasn’t stupid, not even close, but next to Sherlock…it wasn’t a fair comparison. Sherlock’s brain was his most powerful sex organ, and John wondered how he’d stimulate it. Dirty talk? Erotic letters? Explicitly describing his erections in purely medical terms? He felt doubt and apprehension crawl through him, poisoning his earlier happiness. 

“Your breathing changed,” said Sherlock, rolling back toward him again. “Did I upset you?”

John swallowed against unfounded hurt. “I’m not intellectually stimulating to you,” he said.

“No,” Sherlock replied frankly. “Not in the same way I find a mystery stimulating, or the way chemistry intrigues me.”

A hot rush of disappointment coursed through John’s veins, even though he knew it was irrational. 

“But that doesn’t mean I find you boring. You have never once been boring to me.”

John blamed the ache in his chest on the upcoming emotional move and tried to push it down.

“I’ve _chosen_ you, John. I chose you as my friend. I chose you as my flatmate. I’ve chosen you as my lover. Decisions that were not come by lightly, might I add. To be honest, John, I’m not even sure loving you is a choice anymore. I’ve given you my heart. I can tell you I’ve been assured by many people that I don’t even have one. It was mine, and mine only, and I have never once wanted to share. Until you. You’re more than adequate; I never settle for anything. You are exceptional. He stopped talking and swallowed hard.

“Shut up,” said John, blinking back tears. “You’re making me cry.”

“It’s just fatigue,” Sherlock said, drawing him close, both of them knowing it was much more complex than simply being exhausted. 

John allowed himself a good cuddle before remembering they were both rather sticky, the remnants of their liaison drying tacky on his thighs.

They washed slowly in the shower, taking turns standing under the hot spray, soaping each other’s backs, and gently washing sensitive genitals. By the time they were clean, dried, and in their pyjamas, it had gone midnight. 

John lay there in bed, trying to fall asleep and failing spectacularly. His mind was still awake, lingering on the different events of the past year that brought him to his current lot in life. Now he was supposed to say goodbye to it, and it was proving harder than he’d anticipated. 

How does one say goodbye to a house? That was the problem, though, now, wasn’t it? Holmes Hall wasn’t just a house. It was a bloody grand house, bigger and more beautiful than anything he’d ever lived in. He liked his room, the tall windows that overlooked the wide, green expanse of lawn, the fireplace, the general cosy feel of the place. He would miss sitting at the table in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen and the way the sun slanted in the windows in the morning. He thought of the library, with its generous furniture and old, leather-bound volumes lining the shelves, the feel of the oriental rug under his bare feet. And the pool, where he had taken up swimming.

Yes, he was very keen to get to London, to move into the flat with Sherlock, but saying goodbye to the people he’d grown to know and appreciate in Burnett Thwaite had been more difficult than he had thought it would be, and he hadn’t counted on feeling so sentimental about leaving the hall itself. Sometimes it seemed just like yesterday he had lugged his duffle up the steps, cane in hand, a man with no friends, a man with very little fight left in him.

And then came Sherlock, and the garden, and a whirlwind of an unconventional romance. Here he was, nine months later, feeling more whole and solid than he had in ages. The anniversary of his being shot came and went. John finally told Sherlock the whole story, watched as his lover’s eyes darkened and grew flinty, saw how he swallowed with undisguised loathing for the man who had caused John so much pain and suffering. John would kill for Sherlock, and it was then that he knew that Sherlock would do the same. After John had managed to explain everything, finally shared how he’d felt during those dark days of rehabilitation, Sherlock had drawn him close and held him with such ferocity that John had to tell him to relax before he suffocated.

It was, John supposed, _Sherlock_ that made Holmes Hall so dear to him. If John was struggling to say goodbye, surely Sherlock would be worse off. It was, after all, his childhood summer home, the place where he’d caught frogs and bred roses. 

Sherlock must have been struggling with the same feelings, for he couldn’t seem to fall asleep either. He kept moving this way and that. He’d roll over, rub his feet together, roll the other way, flop on his back, spoon John only to kick the covers off again. After nearly an hour of it, John finally sat up and turned on the small bedside lamp.

Sherlock looked at him, one eye peeking out from under his fringe as he lay face-down on the pillow.

“This is stupid,” he muttered. 

“I know,” sighed John. “And honestly, I’m completely knackered.”

“It’s pointless just to lie here.”

“Maybe play the violin for a little while?”

Sherlock considered before shaking his head. “Not in the mood.” He breathed out loudly through his mouth. “There’s nothing to _do_.”

“Is your room completely packed?”

“I could barely walk in there, it’s so full of boxes. I left the sheets on the bed, though.” 

“You’re going to miss it, aren’t you?” John asked, staring at the ceiling. 

 

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock scoffed.

“ _I’m_ going to miss it,” John continued, ignoring Sherlock’s irritated tone. “Yorkshire is...”

“Boring.”

“...Peaceful. And this house is…”

“Drafty.”

“...Beautiful. I’ll miss the pool. And my room. I’m glad we’re taking this bed, by the way. Yours isn’t as soft. I’ll miss the way it smells here. I’ll miss the garden.”

John heard Sherlock swallow. He turned to face him. “You should say goodbye.”

“To what? The house? What a ridiculous notion.”

“It’s not a ‘ridiculous notion’. It’s cathartic.”

“Rubbish.”

“There’s something healing -- and I’m not insinuating you’re broken, so don’t even start -- about saying goodbye to the past, and hello to the future.” He chuckled to himself, a memory surfacing. “And christening the new place.”

Sherlock finally turned to face him. “Christening the new place,” he intoned, his eyebrows raised. “Please tell me we’re not naming the place on Baker Street. Or smashing a bottle of champagne against the front door or some such nonsense.”

“That’s for launching ships, love, so no champagne bottles. And I wasn’t talking about a name. I was thinking about sex.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Sex, in every room, on every surface.” John laughed to himself. “Maybe it’s a honeymoon thing. I like the appeal, though.” 

“I can’t possibly believe people do that.”

“They do,” John affirmed. 

There was a long pause as Sherlock processed this information. “So we ‘christen’ the new place. Are you suggesting we say goodbye to Holmes Hall in much the same manner?”

John chuckled. “God no. Just how many rooms are in this place? I don’t think I have the stamina.”

“Fifty-seven,” said Sherlock. “Not including the cupboards or utility rooms.” 

“Exactly. But you know, I don’t think I’ve even seen all the rooms properly. Popped my head in once, maybe, but I’ve never really _seen_ them.” He paused, an idea surfacing. “Hey, why don’t you show me all of the rooms? Give me one final tour.”

Sherlock looked wary. “Why?”

“It’s the last time _you’ll_ ever see them. I’d like to know more. What you did when you were younger, what it was like living here, exploring around. It’s a child’s dream, growing up in a castle.”

“It’s hardly a castle.” 

John thought of his own small and dingy childhood home. Holmes Hall was grander than anything he’d imagined as a boy. “Fine then. Do you have any better ideas?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

“I wonder if my brother has cleaned out his special reserve,” was his response.

***

They had been sipping at a bottle of 1993 Chateau Margaux straight from the bottle as they bid their farewells to every room in Holmes Hall, beginning with Mycroft’s office. John had suggested giving every room its own toast, and somewhere between their exploration of the coatroom and the chase around the snooker table, they had crossed the line from being sober and fairly fatigued into tipsy and downright exhausted. 

They were now in the main gallery hallway on the second storey, where a row of stern-looking men gazed at them from gilt-framed paintings. 

“And this,” said Sherlock, lowering the now three-quarters-empty bottle of wine from his lips, “is Viscount Richard Holmes*. He had a rather alarming habit of performing suggestive dances at his annual spring ball. He inherited over £110,000 after the passing of his father, which he put to work buying the most extravagant clothing and jewellery he could get his hands on. He was most certainly a homosexual; his wife petitioned for an annulment to their marriage in 1900, stating that he’d never consummated it. Rumour had it that he forced her to lie naked while he covered her body with jewellery and then sketched her. He eventually found himself in debt. At the end of his life he found himself in Monaco, dying of syphilis.”

John furrowed his brow and stared at the man in the picture. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Sherlock licked the wine from his lips. “And this,” he continued, moving to the next portrait, “is Royston Holmes. He was a promising young playwright. But there was a scandal...he was packed off to Australia in the spring of 1925...and never came back.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. He was rather too fond of a music-hall singer named Tommy Timms. They had to get rid of him before the papers found out.”

“Right.”

“And now we come to my great-great uncle Ridgewell Holmes. Caused quite a stir when he broke off his engagement to Eugenia Wellington. As it turned out, Uncle Ridgewell was madly in love with Eugenia’s twin brother, Earnest.”

John gave him a look, but Sherlock moved on.

“Now this is Talfrynn Mandering Holmes, who married Imogen Vernon-Bassingthrope. Killed on the Titanic.”

“Not gay, then?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock held up his index finger for clarification. “Bisexual. Found loads of illicit Japanese male erotica in a steamer trunk in a locked room after his death.”

“I don’t believe you,” laughed John as they neared the end of the hallway and turned the corner to the east wing. 

“You shouldn’t. I am a skilled liar.”

“Are you lying now?”

“Of course I am!” Sherlock yelled dramatically, his voice ringing through the dark hallway. “Although I did have an uncle who dressed as a woman every so often; as far as I know, I am only the second homosexual Holmes.” He frowned at himself and tested the words together again, amused by the alliteration.

“Who’s the first?” asked John.

Sherlock took one final swig of the bottle. “You have met my brother, have you not?” he said, as if it could not be more obvious. “Well, my...my…” --he searched for a proper descriptor and came up short-- “my John. I’m afraid it’s all gone,” he said mournfully, tipping the bottle upside-down. “Luckily, we have arrived at our final destination.”

John giggled. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock really was very tipsy or if he was just so exhausted that he’d gone loopy.

“This is a very important room,” continued Sherlock. He turned his head to the side and raised an eyebrow coquettishly. “It’s my _bedroom_. Would you like me to give you a tour of it as well?”

“The first night I met you, you told me to fuck off,” said John, leaning against the doorframe. “You had a fucking tapestry over your door. You’d been screaming your head off. Heard you all the way downstairs, you know.”

“Maybe I’ll do that again tonight.”

“Tell me to fuck off?”

“Scream so loudly they’ll hear me downstairs.”

John was so tired, God he was so tired. But even when his body clamoured for sleep, something about Sherlock’s voice sent shivers down his spine and heat into his groin. 

“Is once a night not enough for you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock blinked lazily, as if his eyelids were not quite getting the message to reopen. John found Sherlock made the most adorable faces when he’d had a bit to drink: sometimes he squashed his lips together or tucked his chin down to his chest which had the effect of making that long neck comically fold in upon itself, making him have six extra chins.

“I’m inthatiable,” replied Sherlock, frowning when he realised his tongue wasn’t behaving. “In-sa-tiable,” he clarified. “Addictive personality.” 

“Yes, I’m aware,” John chuckled as he opened the door. “After you, love.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and entered his room, making his way to the table to switch on a lamp.

John shut the door and nearly tripped over a stack of small packing crates. “Jesus,” he swore, looking around. With the exception of the packing crates, Sherlock’s room was as bare as he’d ever seen it; even the paintings on the wall had been removed, every book absent from its space on the bookshelves. All of Sherlock’s belongings had been packed up; stacks of cardboard boxes four or five tall turned the room into an obstacle course. A veritable blockade stood between him and the bed. 

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed his childhood room. “Bit of a mess,” he admitted. He wove his way through the boxes and disappeared from view; John followed round to find Sherlock pushing the heavy, brocade curtains away from the tall windows. He unlatched one and opened it, leaned on the casement, and took a deep breath of cool night air. John shivered and sidled up next to him.

“You can still smell it, can’t you?” John said softly. “The garden.”

“I’ve never been here this late into the autumn,” Sherlock mused. “We always left in August. I’d open this window at night and the herbs in particular became fragrant as they cooled in the evening air. Lavender, too; there’s some directly below the window. Mummy sometimes dried it. You could smell our garden from her room--the roses, in particular. Sometimes, when I was very little, I’d go into their room at night. When it was windy -- the wind howled, you’ve heard it -- I’d lie between them in the bed. That’s not the garden, though, what you smell. It’s heather.” 

“It’s nice. Pretty, too.” John had never fully appreciated the scrubby brush on the moors until it all burst into colour the week prior.

“May I leave it open?”

“Sure.” John gazed out into the dark. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he mused. “Saying goodbye to all of this. Leaving a legacy.” 

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his forearms on the casement and clasping his hands together. He shook his head. “A legacy, yes. But it’s not _our_ legacy. That’s out there, yet. London calls. Baker Street. Not here.”

John raised his eyebrows, considered the implications of such a statement. _Our legacy_ , he’d said. John wondered what their legacy would be, what Sherlock imagined it to be. Would they grow old together, then? The two of them, arthritic fingers and reading glasses? What would they leave behind? Years’ worth of blog posts, criminals behind bars, lives saved? 

Whatever their future, John hoped that at the end of it all there would be love. That, he hoped, would be their legacy. That he could look back and say, “Yes, we loved each other, and well,” that those whom they loved would remember and say, “together they were more,” and “they were true partners.” 

They stood there, leaning against the open casement and staring out into the dark, the playful mood of moments ago given way to quiet solemnity. Eventually, John yawned. 

Sherlock turned, put his arm around John’s shoulders, drew him in for a hug. “I think I’m tired. Do you think we can sleep now?” he asked softly.

John sniffed and checked his watch: it was just after 3am. “Yeah. Just let me use the loo.”

When John returned, Sherlock was pushing a stack of boxes out of the way just enough so they could get to the bed. 

“You’ve made a fortress,” said John as he climbed under the duvet and Sherlock turned off the table lamp.

“It’s our own walled garden,” Sherlock replied, peeling off his t-shirt and slipping out of his pyjama pants before climbing into the bed himself. “Are you chilled?”

“No. I like it. To be all warm under the covers when it’s cold outside. Feels cosy.”

John turned to let Sherlock spoon up behind him. They lay quietly for several moments. “Would it be…” Sherlock paused. “Would it be too much if I asked you to take off your clothes? I’m feeling… I’m not really....I just would like…” he trailed off and breathed out sharply through his nose. 

_Connection_ , thought John. He wants physical touch, wants to feel loved. Their lovemaking earlier had been exotic and fueled by lust, but it hadn’t fulfilled whatever Sherlock needed. John shimmied out of his own clothes and tossed them toward the foot of the bed before returning to his position as the little spoon. Sherlock embraced him from behind, wrapping his own lanky, warm body around John’s smaller frame. “Better?” he asked.

“Hmmm, yes. Thank you. Your skin is very soft. I find it comforting.”

Of course he did, thought John, who had read the research on the healing benefits of skin-to-skin, how infants stabilised after the trauma of birth simply by being held against a parent’s flesh. Miracle cases, too, babies being brought back from the brink. Sherlock, in many ways, John mused sleepily, was just like that. He was still learning how to love, how to be physical, to be intimate. John felt immensely proud and fortunate to be his teacher. Or maybe they were learning together, rather, if he were honest with himself. 

John was nearly asleep when he realised Sherlock’s breathing had picked up, felt his heart hammering away through his back. He’d barely noticed his erection, having grown used to the bulk of Sherlock’s genitals pressed against his bum as he slept. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmured against his back when John moved a bit, slotted their bodies together even tighter. “I didn’t mean to get…” He pressed a kiss to John’s back. “...aroused.” He let out a tiny laugh. “Again.”

John smiled to himself, his eyes still closed. “That is something you should never, ever apologise for,” he said, his voice sleep-rough. “Honestly. You’ve done wonders for my ego.” 

“I love you,” said Sherlock softly. John could feel the sandpaper of his chin brush against the skin of his back as he spoke. “I love you so much. Sometimes I simply cannot believe that you return the sentiment. That you want me to touch you, that you want to touch me. That you honestly want to live with me.”

John felt for Sherlock’s hand and held it. “Yeah, I know. And I love you too.”

The wind blew, carrying with it the faint scent of the moors. The wall of boxes kept most of the chill from directly hitting the bed, and the heat of Sherlock’s body was enough to make John feel comfortable -- warm, even.

“It’s a strange physical feeling,” continued Sherlock. “Love. I’d never actually believed that love manifested itself physically. But I can feel it now. In my chest. In my groin.” He swallowed. “It makes me feel...possessive. And, strangely, simultaneously giving.”

“Bit paradoxical, that.”

Sherlock manoeuvred himself so his head rested on John’s shoulder. John could smell his breath, still perfumed from the wine. “I know you’re tired. We don’t have to. I thought… maybe I could convince you, though. I want to have you, here, one last time. Be inside you. In my bed. Please. May I?”

John stifled a yawn, inhaled deeply, and stretched his legs out, tilting his pelvis forward as he pushed Sherlock’s hand down to his groin. “God, Sherlock. I have no idea why my cock thinks it’s nineteen again. I don’t think you’re going to have to do much convincing.”

“I love the way you feel in my hand,” Sherlock murmured into his ear. 

John had initially been shocked when he’d seen his own cock in Sherlock’s large palm; he was used to seeing it in his own, where it seemed proportionate. In Sherlock’s hand, however, he’d felt particularly small. That was until Sherlock marvelled at it, took it in his mouth, demanded it up his arse, worshipped it, and proclaimed it perfect. He’d waxed poetic about it once, describing it to John in precise anatomic detail, claiming he’d committed it to memory. John was sure that he had, too. Could probably pick him out of a lineup on penile anatomy alone. 

“You have lovely hands,” replied John. “You really do.”

“May I touch your arse?”

John sighed with a sleepy laugh. “I don’t know if I can come again, but you may do whatever you damn well please with my arse.” 

Sherlock hummed appreciatively against his back, then tapped his hip and presumably went off to find the lubricant, wherever he’d stashed it. Sherlock bashed into a few boxes on the way; John heard him curse under his breath. 

“You want the light on?” 

“No,” said Sherlock, returning to their boxed-in bed. “Not tonight. We’re both tired, and I think I’d just like to...rely on my other senses. They’re more connected to memory. Touch.” He climbed under the duvet and ran his hand down John’s chest. “Sound. Scent.” His hand delicately reached between John’s legs to give a gentle squeeze to his cock, spread his legs a bit and fondle his balls. “Taste.”

John sighed, relaxing. He loved it when Sherlock played with his testicles; they were just as sensitive as his cock, and he loved them fondled, rubbed, and, sometimes, gently pulled. He loved the feeling of Sherlock’s on his when they’d simply lie on one another and move, or when he was behind Sherlock, fucking him, the way their bollocks would slap together before they grew high and tight in preparation for orgasm. 

“Whatever you want, Sherlock. That feels lovely.” 

“I want to make you feel good. Give you something to remember. Our last time here. This room. The place where I met you, where you gave me something to live for.” Sherlock moved his hand up, placed it over John’s heart. 

“Come here, you,” John whispered, and turned to his side so they could kiss. Sherlock liked kissing far more than John had originally thought he would. Clearly Sherlock was no novice, and he learned what John liked and disliked immediately. Cunning deductions and rapid-fire insults were not the only things that Sherlock could do with that mouth: his plump lips were made for nibbling and sucking, his teeth for gentle nipping, his tongue for gliding, thrusting, teasing. His kisses now were already urgent and wet, the way they were before John usually gave up trying to hold back and began seeking orgasm in whatever expedient way they could think of. Sherlock _liked_ when John became impatient, liked being manhandled and put into position; he’d honestly whimpered once when John had demanded that he get on his hands and knees. But their lovemaking was not at all routine. While their individual preferences became known over time, they didn’t seem to fall into specific roles or patterns. John wondered if they would, over the course of time, but for now, sex was still novel, still raw and full of discovery.

John took a break from the kissing to push Sherlock’s hair out of his face, kiss his brow. The dark let the words come easier. “You want my arse, don’t you?”

“Desperately.”

John knew what it was like to desperately want arse. He rolled over, pillowing his head on his arms. “It’s all yours.”

Sherlock sat up, letting the duvet fall and the cooler air creep in, and then crawled over John and back under the duvet, wiggling himself down to the foot of the bed. John himself didn’t like to be trapped under the covers (hot and claustrophobic), but Sherlock often did. John presumed it had to do with his sense of smell, the way everything was trapped under layers of cotton and wool, the ripe and heady odours of sex. He had been known to give an entire blowjob under there, from start to finish.

Sherlock tapped John’s hip. “Up?” John heard him ask, voice muffled by the covers.

John complied, too tired to feel the thrill of dirtiness that usually came when he put his arse on offering. 

He felt Sherlock’s slender fingers dipping between his cheeks, petting the soft hairs, gently rubbing over the sensitive pucker of his anus. Sherlock had slotted himself behind John’s body and was gently mouthing at the small of his back, running his other hand over John’s front, caressing his abdomen, occasionally reaching down to his cock and balls. 

John responded instantly, the muscles of his arsehole twitching in anticipation. Sherlock had taught him how to relax there, how to prepare for penetration, and while he took a bit more preparation than Sherlock did, he no longer needed more than a few minutes of foreplay and gentle touch before his hole loosened enough to take fingers or cock. 

After a few minutes of simple, gentle touch, Sherlock shifted behind him, took his arse in those big hands, parted the cheeks, felt with his nose and lips along the cleft until his tongue found what it was looking for. John sighed into the pillow, shivering not from the chill but rather from the still-illicit feeling of Sherlock’s tongue against his hole. It was filthy and perfect, and from somewhere under the blankets, Sherlock groaned too. 

John allowed himself to relax even more, to concentrate on the heat of Sherlock behind him, the way he kissed his hole much like he kissed his mouth: he licked and nibbled, nipped and lipped, darted his tongue out, swiped it up and down, massaged in small circles, and went all out, fucking John’s arse with it. It was wet and messy and utterly sexual, especially with Sherlock moaning away under there. They were much alike that way: both got off on getting his partner off. 

Sherlock was particularly fond of rimming and was stunningly good at it. John had done it a dozen or so times with his previous female lovers, and the few times one of his partners had been kinky enough to reciprocate didn’t last for very long. Sherlock, though. Sherlock would keep licking and sucking for ages --until his jaw had to ache and his face was covered with saliva-- and enjoy every moment. And God help him if it wasn’t the sexiest, most thrilling thing they’d done in the bedroom so far. 

John didn’t keep track of how long Sherlock was at it this time around, but it was long enough to make him hot enough to abandon his blankets, for he threw them off himself violently. John shivered at both the loss of contact and the cool air hitting his wet backside. 

“God, I want you,” Sherlock growled, wiping his face on his arm before reaching for the floor beside the bed. John lay there lazily, arse still in the air, smiling to himself. He heard the flip-cap of their pricey (and preferred) silicone lube and the crinkle of a condom wrapper. 

“You don’t need that,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” Sherlock replied. 

John supposed he was right. Ever pragmatic, his lover. 

“Is your shoulder all right?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah.”

“Is from behind OK? Do you want to lie down?” 

They’d experimented with different positions; but John could tell, right now, that Sherlock wanted to move. How the man had the energy John would never know.

“I’m fine like this.” 

Then Sherlock’s fingers were back, wet, adding lubricant to his already soaking arse. “You’re so soft and open already,” Sherlock whispered in awe. “Just from my tongue.”

_And the fatigue and the wine_ , thought John. 

Sherlock gently worked the lubricant around his entrance before applying more to his fingers and pushing it carefully inside.

“You need my fingers for a while?” Sherlock usually loved playing with John’s hole first, touching it, stretching it, rubbing his own cock across it, reveling in the sensation. 

“Hmm? No, I don’t think so. Just let me adjust.”

“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispered, lined up, and pushed in gently.

John’s breath left him as his anus stretched around the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock, yet there was enough lubricant and he was relaxed enough for Sherlock to slide in easily. John felt the flared tip of the corona pass through and then the rest of his length follow. Behind him, Sherlock ran his hands soothingly up and down John’s torso.

“Is this what you wanted?” John asked.

“Oh. Oh yes, John. I’m...It’s just. I…” He swallowed. “Overwhelming.”

“Shhh. Yes, I know. Just stay still for a moment. Be still.”

And so they did, connected in the most intimate of ways, still within the walled garden of their bed. John caught the briefest hint of heather as the wind blew, a faint perfume mingling with their own scents. 

One of the most marvellous things about being penetrated, John thought, was that he could feel Sherlock inside him, his hard length, and if he concentrated, he fancied he could even feel his pulse through his cock. He wasn’t so accustomed to it that it wasn’t completely without discomfort, but the pressure eased quickly enough. Sherlock hit his prostate best like this, from behind, and while they couldn’t easily kiss or look at each other in this position, John found that he could close his eyes and just concentrate on the bright spark of pleasure that radiated every time Sherlock thrust in. Sherlock was controlled in his movements, too; John never felt as if he were getting jabbed, poked, or used, but rather like he was welcoming Sherlock into his body, that he was not simply allowing it, but offering it because it honestly felt good. Even now, as Sherlock was beginning to thrust forward, pulling out just an inch or so to push back in, John felt the pleasurable tug of his stretched rim, the lubricant letting them slide together as if they were meant to: a well-greased engine, a mechanical marvel. 

“Is it OK?” Sherlock murmured behind him, running his hands over John’s back, down his chest to tweak his nipples, before sliding over his belly and back to his hips. 

“God, yes, love.”

“You’re my everything,” Sherlock whispered then, voice becoming thick with emotion. “My all.”

“Yes.”

They continued to move together, slowly, reverently, their breathing becoming harsh and urgent. 

One particular thrust caught John off guard; something had changed in the angle, and he moaned without restraint. It must have set something off in Sherlock, who groaned himself and increased his pace. 

“Yeah,” John murmured, “that’s it, love. Make some noise for me. Let it all out.”

“Oh God,” gasped Sherlock, and then reached down to pick John up so they were both kneeling. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s torso to keep himself steady and began to thrust in earnest.

John opened his eyes wide in the dark, the pleasure coming now hard and fast. He reached for his own cock and began to jerk himself off to the rhythm of Sherlock’s thrusts. He was too tired to form cohesive sentences anymore but sound escaped his lips nonetheless, meaningless syllables of drawn-out vowels and half-formed curses mingling with Sherlock’s own rhythmic grunting. The antique bed frame creaked with their movements like clockwork. 

His orgasm hit him. He honestly hadn’t expected to have another, but it was happening, his bollocks drawing up and penis jerking as the climax shuddered through him. “Fuck!” he yelled as he began to spurt over his fingers. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s waist and groaned, long and loud. “I’m coming,” he moaned, “Oh, I’m coming too. Oh, John, I’m…”

John abandoned his dripping cock and flung his arms backward, clinging to Sherlock as they shuddered together. He turned his head back for a kiss; Sherlock’s mouth met his, their lips dry from panting. 

Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulders before finally reaching down to hold the condom as he pulled out. John felt around for his discarded t-shirt and gave himself a quick wipe-down before handing it over to Sherlock, who must have deposited the condom on the floor before collapsing on the bed. They were both sweaty, sore, and beyond exhausted.

They lay there in the dark, flat on their backs, until Sherlock --wonder of all wonders-- yawned. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, turning over to his side away from John. “I hadn’t meant to get so carried away.”

John cosied up behind him, pulling the duvet over them both. “That was lovely,” he said, kissing Sherlock between his shoulder blades. 

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, pulled him closer. “That was the first time we’d done that,” he said. “Came together.”

“Mmm. A good memory then.”

“Indeed. Thank you.” Sherlock yawned again; John echoed it. 

“Let’s sleep now, OK?”

Sherlock wiggled as he got comfortable. “The bed’s wet,” he complained.

“I could care less.”

“Hmm-mmm.” Then, “Love you.”

John smiled and closed his eyes. Soon he grew too warm. Sherlock had fallen asleep, his breaths coming long and slow. John kissed his curls and disentangled himself so he could actually sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.

Outside, the September wind blew through the heathered moors, whipped through the branches of the trees. It blew over the garden walls below; nothing stirred within. Sherlock’s roses, now heavy with scarlet-hued hips, slept on, undisturbed. Within the stone walls of Holmes Hall, in an upstairs room in a bed walled-in by their worldly possessions, two men did too.

 

 

 

*In my search for a proper scandal, I found the story of Henry Paget, the 5th Marquess of Anglesey. The scandal I wrote in this paragraph is essentially his, although I did add the homosexual bit.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for " The Guarded Secret" by mycapeispliaid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3876253) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)
  * [Photos to illustrate "The Guarded Secret" by mycapeisplaid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4270521) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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